


Dirk and Jane: Hound of the Sassacres

by Quilly



Series: Life with Dirk and Jane [6]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Betty Crocker's Kiddos are Screwed, Blood, Coming full circle, Dog Fights, Good Ole Colonel Sassacre, Multi, Murderous Lady Fish Trump Retroactively Strikes Again, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Self-Harm, Spoiler Alert: Scratch Is Back, This Is For You, Violence, good goody gosh y'all, in which everyone is reborn into the new planet, it's been a year in the making, makeouts and gun fights and emotions oh my, tying up loose ends, welcome to Altville, where the quadrants are different and the points don't matter!, you won't believe how he did it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 04:59:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7208750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Jane Crocker and this is the last case.</p><p>In which Dirk Strider is acting weird, John Egbert has manly mangrit, Calliope is Down For The Count, Roxy Lalonde is the best friend ever, Karkat Vantas needs his punch card stamped, Dave Strider has a beautiful baby, Doc Scratch returns, and Jane Crocker's most formidable foe may actually be herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirk and Jane: Hound of the Sassacres

**Author's Note:**

> A year in the making, and here it is, folks, the ACTUAL final installment to the Life with Dirk and Jane series.
> 
> First, let me additionally warn: This contains graphic scenes of panic attacks and self-abuse, so if that is something you can't deal with, please turn back now.
> 
> I fought writing it for so long, and got busy and couldn't deal with it, but the longer I thought about it and reread Sherlockbound, the more I became convinced that the universe needed this last story to truly bring it full-circle and tie up loose ends. 
> 
> The original tagline of this fic was going to be "A Tale of Dubious Canonicity." Then I realized that every story after "Fun with Dirk and Jane" could be taken that way and basically gave up on my life. Please enjoy the last adventure with Dirk and Jane!

Your name is Jane Crocker and high-speed car chase wasn’t exactly on your to-do list for this week.

 

To be fair, though, it has always been on your bucket list. The last car chase you were technically involved in was about four years ago and you were bleeding out at the time. Today, you are laying down cover fire while Dirk white-knuckle grips the steering wheel. It’s terribly rude of your attackers to put bullet holes in Dirk’s Scion, you think as you aim for their tires. And also for them to be shooting at you, but that goes without saying. You don’t usually enjoy these kinds of hijinks. Far too high-profile for you, and this coming from the gal who faked her own death.

 

“Would you mind telling me,” Dirk yells over the roar of panicked cars and devious guns, “where our backup is?”

 

“I’m sure they’re on their way!” you shout back. “A moving target is harder to—duck!”

 

He does, driving hunched down and now clearly frowning at the shards of glass peppering the dashboard and the holes right where his head was.

 

To explain: the gentlemen shooting at you currently are the hired muscle for a rather nasty arms dealer, who appears to be overwhelmingly attached to the one-of-a-kind battery currently in your possession. To your knowledge, this gizmo has the potential to create very big bombs. You’re on a freelance job for Harley Industries right now, as a personal favor to Jade. The shooting wasn’t in the original job description, but then, it never really is.

 

Dirk suddenly swerves into a tunnel. The line of his mouth would put levels to shame. The people shooting at you appear to have been taken off-guard by this move, since he had to cross a median to do it, which buys you a few precious moments of not being close to death.

 

“Jade owes me a new car,” Dirk says, and you laugh.

 

By the time you exit the tunnel, it seems backup has arrived—there is a helicopter, several police vehicles, and one irate head detective shouting directions through a megaphone.

 

“Put the guns _down_!” Karkat barks as you and Dirk drive up. “For the love of—”

 

He spots you and his cheeks go brick-red. He throws his megaphone down and slams the door of the cruiser shut behind him, stomping up to you as you lean out of the open window and beam at him.

 

“Is something wrong, officer?” you ask innocently.

 

“Are you shot?” he snaps.

 

“No,” you say, and look over your shoulder. “Dirk?”

 

Dirk shakes his head, a tight side-to-side motion that conveys worlds of tenseness.

 

“Did you get what you were looking for?”

 

“Bingo,” you say, smiling.

 

“Then I don’t care. Go deliver the package and get out of my hair,” Karkat says irritably. “One normal case, Crocker. That’s all I’m asking. _One_.”

 

“Blame your girlfriend for this one,” you call as Dirk drives away. You sit back in your seat and pout at him. “I had several more good quips ready.”

 

Dirk grunts. Oh, dear.

 

Jade accepts the battery with the biggest of grins, and isn’t fazed when Dirk drops his shattered, bullet-ridden rearview mirror on her desk.

 

“Any particular color or model?” Jade asks, and Dirk shrugs.

 

“We’ll be in touch,” you promise, putting your hand on Dirk’s arm and pulling him along. “Get better security on that next time!”

 

“Thanks again!” Jade shouts, because by then you and Dirk are at the stairs.

 

Dirk is silent on the car ride home, and doesn’t say anything on the walk up to the apartment. You’re not overly concerned, but he hasn’t looked at you for a solid half hour at least.

 

It’s when he petulantly slams his keys on the counter and starts aggressively untying his shoes that you decide to stop humoring his childish cold shoulder.

 

“Yes, Dirk?” you say in your most patient and long-suffering voice.

 

“Nothing,” Dirk says, and throws his shoes down next to the door. “Taking a shower.”

 

You sigh as he continues to bang his way around the apartment, and only crumple once the bathroom door is shut and the shower is going.

 

You are good at keeping it together in the field. You can’t afford a single second of discomposure, particularly when jobs turn dangerous like this one. What you do in your free time, however, is up to you.

 

You’ve been very careful to keep these episodes from Dirk’s notice. He doesn’t need this from you right now. You put your head down on your knees and take deep, slow breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. You clench your hands around the back of your neck and focus on breathing. Breathe, don’t cry. Breathe, don’t cry. Focus on the feeling of your shaking hands, not on the old memories threatening to claw their way to the surface. Breathe.

 

Breathe.

 

Relax.

 

Dirk is still in the shower when you feel prepared enough to stand. You take wobbly steps towards the bathroom and let yourself in.

 

“Occupado,” Dirk says sardonically as you sit on the floor opposite the shower.

 

“You’re angry with me,” you reply.

 

The shower cuts off after a minute.

 

“What gave me away?”

 

“Sarcasm is such a good look on you.”

 

The shower curtain parts as Dirk pointedly holds part of it up over his waist. Above his waist is quite wet. And exposed.

 

“Never mind, this is a better look,” you say, and Dirk’s mouth bows a little.

 

He gestures, and you stand, balling up the towel and throwing it at him. The shower curtain drops again, and then he pushes it back all the way, the towel snug around his hips.

 

You refuse to be distracted by the water droplets sliding through the dips and valleys of his abs. He will not win this time, darn it.

 

“The scene on the freeway was not my fault,” you say, and Dirk sighs, grabbing another towel for his hair. He doesn’t speak until his hair is sufficiently tousled.

 

“Never said it was.”

 

“And as I recall, we were both there and both had input when Jade approached us about the battery.”

 

“Also true.”

 

“So why are you upset?”

 

The look he shoots you isn’t resentful, merely measuring. He loops the towel around his neck.

 

“I was under the impression,” he says, carefully, “that our lives would _not_ erupt in gunfire after we stopped taking homicides.”

 

“Crime is crime, Dirk. Where there are things worth stealing, there are also things worth killing for.”

 

You look at him, and he looks at you. Cool. Distant. Considering.

 

Then he leans in and kisses your nose.

 

“You have dirt on your forehead,” he says, and shoos you out so he can change. You stand on the other side of the bathroom door and sigh.

 

Whatever’s eating him will come to light eventually. You just need to give him time.

 

==>

 

It is seven AM and your phone is ringing. It can only mean one thing.

 

“Morning, John,” you say, crooking the phone between your head and shoulder while you mix up some waffles. “What’s up?”

 

“The sky,” he says, and snorts like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever told. You’d think after twenty-plus years of hearing that answer you’d snap and take his head off for it, but it’s endearing. In an annoying little brother sort of way. You smile.

 

“Seriously.”

 

“Seriously, I’m just going through the storage unit,” he says, and you frown. “Figured we let it rest long enough, y’know?”

 

“Yeah,” you say slowly. “Uh. What’ve you found?”

 

“Lots of old junk of Dad’s,” John says, his voice all exasperated affection. “Picture albums. Furniture.”

 

“What are we doing with said junk?” you ask, doing your level best to keep your voice steady. You…alright, maybe you’ll never really be ready to face your father’s storage unit, but you are a little hurt John wouldn’t wait for you. Maybe that was the point. It’s been…wow, maybe eight years?

 

“Well, since Dad basically set it up where the unit is paid on indefinitely, I was thinking we just keep storing most of it until we or someone else needs it,” John says. “I just kinda wanted to have an idea of what we’re dealing with here, in case one of our friends needs a used couch or something.”

 

“Or a case of moldy moustaches?” you ask, grinning as John laughs.

 

“No, those are all mine,” he chuckles. “Listen, I found the trunk of Nanna’s stuff in here, too. Wanna go through it with me?”

 

Your gut says No, you do not. Out of everything in the attic, Nanna’s trunk was the one thing Dad always put his foot down over. You came close to picking the lock once, before Dad came barging up the stairs and grounded you for a week (which surprised you; you thought he was supposed to be at work). Yeah, your curiosity is still gnawing at you, and Dad’s been gone for a long time.

 

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, to have a little more family history.

 

“Sure,” you say. “Bring it down.”

 

“Aw, come on, it’s heavy,” John complains, but in the good-natured way you know means he’s already checking his gas tank. “Be there in a few hours.”

 

“I’ll save you some waffles,” you say, and John whoops and hangs up. You return to your waffles, smiling.

 

You hear another door opening, and the shuffle of what can only be your boyfriend emerging from his mancave. Your suspicions are confirmed when the bathroom door opens and closes. You idly flop a few strips of bacon into a pan on the stove that’s been pre-heating.

 

You are in the midst of waffle extraction when Dirk’s chin lands on top of your head, and you laugh. He’s not even awake enough to try holding you yet.

 

“Breakfast will be ready soon,” you say, and Dirk mumbles. It’s easy enough, after all these years, to work in the kitchen with a tall freckled growth shuffling behind you. You’re whipping eggs when his arms finally reach around your waist.

 

“Morning,” he rasps, and kisses your neck. You shiver and don’t bother hiding it.

 

“Set the table,” you say, and Dirk smooches your cheek before complying.

 

With the sun streaming in and birdsong out the window, domestic bliss doesn’t seem quite so much like one of your deflated daydreams. You set a stack of buttered waffles on the table, and follow it up with a bowl of eggs and plate of bacon. Most of the bacon will be joining Dirk’s waffles under the ludicrous ocean of syrup he always pours. The man himself is setting the table with meticulous care, making sure the forks are perfectly parallel to the plates and the glasses are at an exact right angle to the rest of the flatware. You set out the syrup and wait. When Dirk is satisfied, he sits, the corner of his mouth twitching in a fond grin that doesn’t fade.

 

“Thanks,” he says, and begins loading up his plate. You wait until he’s had his fill and then get yours. That was a battle you fought for years before he gave up.

 

Several minutes of silent chewing lets you pretend, for a moment, that your life is normal and that Dirk isn’t still upset with you. If he doesn’t seem to have remembered yet, then you aren’t going to push it. He inhales his breakfast and is loading up on seconds before he speaks in full sentences.

 

“Heard your phone go off,” he says around a mouthful of bacon. “What’s up?”

 

“John wants to sort through some ancestral heirlooms,” you say. You must not have hidden the catch in your throat quite as well as you thought, because Dirk’s eyes flick up at you momentarily before returning to his breakfast.

 

“Want help?”

 

“Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but I think this is something John and I should do alone,” you say. “You should help Jade with her new whatchamacallit.”

 

Dirk nods, and gives you a smacking syrup-sticky smooch on the cheek before once again retreating into the bathroom. You finish your waffle and set about clearing the table.

 

John shows up well after Dirk leaves for his day job, lugging the ancient wood-and-leather trunk in his arms and red-faced.

 

“Hiya,” he grunts as he sets the trunk down on your couch.

 

“I could’ve helped bring it up, you know,” you frown, and John laughs.

 

“I got it,” he says. “Now let’s crack this puppy open!”

 

He produces a small tarnished key, which he passes reverently into your hands. You smile, and pause only to take a deep breath before sliding the key into the trunk’s decrepit lock. With a rusty click, it slides apart, and the lid is yours to open for the first time in your living memory. John crowds next to you.

 

The lid lifts, and you both sneeze at the enormous puff of dust that somehow smells precisely like the shortbread cookies Dad made every year on Nanna’s birthday.

 

“Wow,” John says, and you are inclined to agree. Within the trunk are the usual accoutrements of an aged lady’s possessions—a stack of worn envelopes addressed jauntily to Miss J. Crocker, doilies, books, a pair of silk gloves that look ready to disintegrate at a touch, and who knows how many other treasures buried beneath. You slide the trunk to the floor with a huff of surprise at its heft, and take your place on the couch.

 

“This is cool stuff,” John says, carefully lifting the envelopes. You notice that they don’t have a return address, though they are all written in the same hand, a blocky mannish lettering in green that’s vaguely familiar to you. “Wonder how old it all is.”

 

“Fifty years at least,” you say absently, setting aside the gloves and fingering the strand of pearls nestled underneath within a yellowed lace veil. “Probably more.”

 

The trunk yields a surprising amount, from a red-trimmed white apron monogrammed with a familiar red spoon logo to a falling-apart picture album to what you’re fairly sure are your father’s baby shoes. The books all appear to be recipe books, which you set to the side for thorough perusal later. John wrestles open a coffee can that jingles, only to get hit square in the face with toy snakes once the lid is removed. You cry laughing as John splutters and adjusts his glasses.

 

“She got me,” he mutters, carefully replacing the snakes and lid. “Fifty years, and she got me with the oldest trick in the book.”

 

“Correct, I’m afraid,” you say as you skim the first prank outlined in a joke book so old the cover is illegible. “According to…Colonel Sassacre, it seems. Nanna must have had a real appreciation for the classics.”

 

John frowns. “Colonel Sassacre. I know that name.”

 

You shrug and pass him the enormous tome, which alone probably equated roughly half of the trunk’s weight. “Have a look and see what you find.” You stick your hand in the trunk and come away with a coiled red leather leash. The end that would’ve attached to a collar appears to have been either torn away or chewed away. You study it and frown.

 

“That’s odd,” you say aloud, then shrug and set it aside. A peek inside the trunk tells you there’s one item left, a plain blue book roughly the same shade as your eyes. At some point the word “diary” was etched onto the cover in gold leaf, but most of it has been worn away. You pick it up and idly flip it open.

 

_June 1_

_Mother hosted another party this evening. It seemed wrong to attend on the anniversary, but it was either go or be very strongly chastised, so between my two options, going was the lesser of two inconveniences._

You snort. It’s a familiar-sounding setup. Anniversary of what?

 

_It was a very nice party, though I do wish she would find another venue to tell her competition she’s bought them. It spoils the dessert when angry businessmen throw it._

Too true, Nanna. You flip through the pages to the last entry, which you note is the day of your birth. You frown, then check the date of the first entry, about seventy years earlier. Clearly Nanna was not a creature of this particular habit.

 

_April 13_

_I feel in my bones that today is the day. I’ve had such a terribly long life. It doesn’t sadden me at all that it’s finally over. On the contrary, perhaps this way I will see my dear J again._

 

You note that the way she writes J here is different from how she normally writes it.

 

_Just as well that the joke shop is closed for good today. It had a good run, but I suppose Mother couldn’t let anything not connected explicitly to her carry Sassacre’s name._

Sassacre? Was he a real person? You thought it was just a funny moniker for a funny book. You never knew Nanna had a joke shop. It doesn’t surprise you that Meenah shut it down, not in the slightest.

 

_I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to meet J again. I know it’s the one thing the Colonel wanted for me. But I’ve had an excellent run. And if that old coot hasn’t died yet, I’ll keep a seat warm for him! Hoo hoo!_

 

You shake your head at the way Nanna signed off, smiling, then notice an imprint of words written on the back of the last page. You turn it over.

 

_IT IS COMING._

 

“What’s coming?” John asks, and you jump. You almost forgot he was there.

 

“No idea,” you say. Unbidden your eyes stray to the broken leash. Dad always said Nanna died of old age…what would she have been afraid of at the end of her life?

 

Your phone dings, and you pull it out to check it. A news update.

 

“Little & Little company fully dissolved,” you read aloud. “All assets have been liquidated and employees either let go or hired by Crocker Corp, courtesy of CEO Cronus Ampora.”

 

“That’s nice of him,” John says absently, returned fully to his study of the Sassacre joke book. “I hear he’s going to hand the company back over to Feferi once she retires from being mayor.”

 

“More power to her,” you say, just as absent while you scroll through the story. Nothing new, not to you; you’ve known that Little & Little would die off without its owner and its financial backer working together. You put your phone down and look at the final inscription in Nanna’s diary. It looks like she was in a hurry, the letters scrawled together and pressed hard against the paper. Not scared, the lettering isn’t shaky enough, but urgent.

 

“She writes like you do,” John says, and you blink. Yeah, you guess you see the resemblance. You put the diary aside, drawing up the pile of letters into your lap. The way the Js are written on the envelopes is just like Nanna’s mysterious J, though clearly written by a different person. You slide one free and reach into the envelope for the letter.

 

_Hello, old girl! It’s been smashing fun out here in the freedom of the wilderness! I’m having a corking time, just corking. The gents out here sure do enjoy a good scrum, diddle my darns if they don’t!_

 

You almost laugh at the green-inked words. Definitely familiar.

 

_Jolly good to hear from you again, I must say. Hope the old bat hasn’t been giving you too hard a time. Say, if you can spare the time, why don’t you join me on a quest in a few months? I hear there’s a really spiffing treasure hidden in the Troll Amazons. Surely enough to tickle a young lady’s fancy, eh?_

_Listen, my dear, I’ve also a warning. I’ve heard that Becquerel is loose again. Do us a favor and hit the poor beast betwixt the eyes with a good peppering of buckshot, won’t you? It’s damnably cruel to keep the old boy running as he is only to have him muzzled and chained again once his awful work is all done. Besides, anything to keep ye old Batterwitch from using her favorite weapon, don’tcha know._

 

You frown. Becquerel? Favorite weapon?

 

_See if the old thing will come to the sound of his chew toys. It’s a hard task, old girl, but it’s far crueler to let the poor thing continue this popping in and out of existence bit. Besides, I hear he’s quite rabid these days and if I had the time I’d hunt him down myself. Still, I trust you to take care of it._

_Chin up and stiff upper lip, sis._

_J. Harley_

 

You feel the letter sliding out of nerveless fingers.

 

“Jane?” John asks, and then a few seconds later you hear a low swear word emanating from his general location. You’re a bit busy trying to fit the pieces together.

 

“We’re related?” John says, and you feel a swooping in your gut. You want to deny it, but if Nanna and Jake’s Grandpa were brother and sister…that means…that means you and Jake…

 

You dial a number on your phone and wait.

 

“Hello, Mr. Ampora’s office, how can I help you?”

 

“Yes, this is Jane Crocker. I was wondering if I could have a look at the Crocker Corp records,” you say, and John glances at you. The secretary on the other end of the line is silent.

 

“I’ll need a clearance number, Miss Crocker.”

 

“413-SBRB,” you say promptly.

 

“Transferring you to records now,” the secretary says, and you wait another few moments.

 

“Hello?” a reedy voice says. “Who is this?”

 

“It’s Jane, Ms. Leijon,” you say. Meulin Leijon has worked in the Crocker Corp record department for longer than you’ve been alive, much longer, and she kept the most accurate records even when it would have meant her death if it was found out. Current intimate knowledge of her life tells you that she does it out of spite, retaliation for the Batterwitch’s murder of her matesprit, but you only have police records for your authority. She’s a troll of sound sense, and she knows you. Most important of all.

 

“Hello, Miss Crocker,” Meulin purrs. “It’s been quite a long while, hasn’t it?”

 

“Yes, ma’am, it has,” you say politely. “Ms. Leijon, could you tell me the full Crocker line of succession, including cast-offs and disinherited members, from the eldest Meenah Peixes down?”

 

“Let’s see,” Meulin says, her voice sharpening from old and amiable to focused, “there’s Meenah Peixes…then Jane Crocker, the one you were named after…the kids Meenah and Feferi didn’t get there until later, you see, and—”

 

“Just Nanna?” you say swiftly. Sound sense, sure, but like any older person Meulin can get on a tangent if left unattended. “No brother or sister?”

 

“Well,” Meulin says, dragging the vowel out, “if I recall correctly, around the time little miss Crocker was adopted, Peixes also adopted a little boy. Trying to project the nuclear family image of the time, you see. He didn’t stay long, though. Ran away.”

 

“Were they related?” you ask, a little breathlessly.

 

“No, Miss Crocker,” Meulin says, and your gut unclenches. “No, not related by blood, just two little orphans she picked out for their dark hair. Jake, that was the boy’s name, little Jake Harley. He had the worst lisp, you know.”

 

“Right,” you say, still giddy with relief.

 

“He didn’t much care for Peixes’ politics and corporate scheming. Ran off all on his own around the time he was thirteen. Broke Master Sassacre’s heart, it did.”

 

“Master—who?” you ask.

 

“Sassacre. She married him to make it all look charming and familial to the public, never mind that she was clearly a troll and everyone knew it for a political stunt,” Meulin continues. “From what I heard, she did have a soft spot for him, though he devoted most of his time to practical jokes. He cared for Jake and Jane as best as he could, when Peixes would let him. He met with a nasty hunting accident soon after Jake ran off.”

 

“What kind of accident?”

 

“Mauling,” Meulin says, with as much feeling as discussing the weather. Sometimes trolls are weird. “Some huge animal ripped his throat out.”

 

You thank Meulin for her help and hang up, releasing a breath. Odd. You would have banked on Nanna’s life being less complicated than yours, but maybe it’s a family trait.

 

“Not related,” you announce to John. “Not by blood, anyway.”

 

“Cool,” John says, and returns to the joke book. You feel a little put out by his reaction, but, then, you’re fairly certain John never had a thing for Jade the way you did for Jake back in the day.

 

That detail settled, you return to your study of Nanna’s final entry. “It is coming”…could she have meant this mysterious Becquerel? From Mr. Harley’s letter, you assume it was a living creature, but what kind of living creature can pop in and out of existence? What does that even mean?

 

“Colonel Sassacre!” John cries, and you nearly drop the diary. John has the joke book pressed to his chest, grinning like an idiot and on his feet. “I know that name!”

 

“You do?” you say, a little breathlessly.

 

“Yeah!” John nods. “Remember Dad’s scrapbook? Remember the old guy with the moustache and crazy hair? The one we could never figure out who he was?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I eventually pried the picture out one day after Dad died,” John says triumphantly. John had the same relationship with the scrapbook that you did with Nanna’s trunk, among other things. “That name was written on the back. I didn’t recognize it, so I just forgot about it.”

 

“He was married to Meenah,” you say, and John blinks.

 

“Weird.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

You set aside the leash, the pearls, the diary, and the letters. Everything else goes back into the trunk except for the joke book, which John has laid absolute claim to.

 

“Anyway, thanks for helping me out,” John grins, and you grin back, hugging him.

 

“Any time,” you reply. “Do you need help carrying that down?”

 

“Nah,” John shrugs. “I got it. With my manly mangrit. And my arms.”

 

You shake your head and smile as John does indeed heft the whole trunk in his manly mangritty arms and take it back downstairs to his car. You hug again, and then part ways with the promise that you will help him go through the storage unit this upcoming weekend.

 

You close your door behind you and turn to face your empty apartment. The smell of cookies and old things lingers, and you pick up the red leather dog leash again, fingering the ragged end. You uncoil its length and find that for a normal leash, it’s at least a foot and a half too short, as if whatever was leashed turned and bit it off while it was slack in someone else’s hand. You shiver despite yourself and set about transferring Nanna’s treasures to your room. The pearls you put on, careful of the aged clasp.

 

Your day looks pretty open, so you take some extra time fixing yourself up all pretty, to honor Nanna’s jewelry, and when Dirk gets home he does a double-take and whistles. You grin, immensely pleased with yourself and with the red dress you haven’t worn in a while.

 

“Watch it, buster,” you say, and smooch your partner right on his mouth. “I’m a lady, not a dog!”

 

“Apologies, ma’am,” Dirk says, tossing his shoulder bag to the couch and cupping your face to kiss you properly. Once he’s done, he looks you over again, small smile crooking up the corner of his mouth. “Let’s go out tonight.”

 

“A night on the town sounds nice,” you agree.

 

“A night on the town where we’re not being shot at, crawling into someone’s house, or running after criminals sounds like just what the doctor ordered,” he nods, with the funny bitter twist of his mouth that has so often accompanied his deadpan attitude about your line of work lately. You frown, but he kisses your forehead and steps around you, saying something about freshening up as he disappears back into his room.

 

You take advantage of the extra time to reapply your lipstick, and your eyes stray to the dog leash again, sitting on your vanity. You don’t really remember putting it there, but you guess you must have. Its chewed end keeps drawing your eye, and it isn’t until Dirk knocks on your door and you jump that you realize you’ve been staring at it for a few minutes now.

 

“Spacing out there?” he asks as he lets himself in. “You look beautiful.”

 

“Thank you,” you say, shaking your head in hopes of clearing it. “Let’s go, shall we?”

 

Between your dress and his button-up shirt and tie, you’re looking very dapper together indeed, and dapper outings require that you go to the finest cheap restaurant that the two of you can afford: the café in downtown Altville, just across the street from Town Hall and conveniently equidistant from many of your favorite sleuthing sources. But tonight isn’t about sleuthing or detecting or even snooping, you remind yourself as you let your and Dirk’s twined fingers swing back and forth. Tonight is just about being together. Being happy.

 

“Miss Crocker,” Dirk says as he pulls out your chair gallantly.

 

“Ooh, thank you, Mr. Strider,” you giggle, taking ample time to admire the figure he cuts as he rolls his sleeves up and sits down. You chat amicably about your respective days while looking over a menu you’ve both long since memorized. When they bring your mango strawberry lemonade, you take a long, sucking gulp and sigh in contentment. Dirk’s blueberry pomegranate juice remains untouched, and though the light is wrong for you to see behind his shades, you are fluent in his body language and know he’s just staring at you right now, his little absent half-smile fixed on his face dreamily. “What?”

 

“Nothing,” he says, and takes a sip of his drink. You let it be. “I just realized it’s coming up on the fifth anniversary of our partnership, is all.”

 

“Five years this October,” you nod, smiling.

 

“Yeah.” He fidgets. He’s acting nervous. That’s odd. “Long time for people to be together. I mean, even if technically the relationship perimeters changed midway through and there was the—the break.” He still stumbles gracelessly over what to call the period of time you were “dead”, and a voice in your head says that he is never really going to be over that. It hurts to think about, that you destroyed him like that. “Anyway. Figured a little early celebration wouldn’t hurt.”

 

Your food is brought out, and the two of you fall silent while you dig in. A few minutes and half a plate of pasta later, you swallow and observe him from behind your lashes. When he thinks you aren’t looking, he fiddles with his silverware, pushing his food around more than eating it. His leg is jumping with restless energy. His mouth keeps making little aborted half-open movements, like he keeps wanting to say something but constantly thinking better of it.

 

You frown to yourself and log it away on your list of Dirk’s Weird Behavior. You open your mouth—to make a joke, to tell a story, you’re not positive—when there’s a blinding flash of searing light and an earsplitting crack, followed by vicious-sounding growling. And then people screaming.

 

The source of the noise, at the center of the café, is a huge, hulking dog, black as night and smoking slightly. Its one good eye glitters with bloodlust, lips peeled back to reveal fangs longer than any normal dog should have. Its matted fur has been entirely worn away in patches on its legs and neck, in shapes that remind you of manacles. It growls deep in its chest, saliva dripping from its mouth in ropes.

 

And it is staring right at you.

 

The patrons of the café are in a panic, and you hear several people on the phone with emergency services as the dog snaps at any unfortunate passersby still too close to it. Though it tries to bite anything that comes near, its eyes remain fixed on you, ears pinned back. You don’t blink, nor do you drop its gaze. Something inside of you says that taking your eyes off it for a second would be a very, very bad idea. Your hand moves slowly, slowly, for the gun holstered on your upper thigh under your skirt.

 

All at once the dog leaps, jaws open in a ferocious bark, and you whip the gun out and fire.

 

Another blinding flash of light and fizzle of ozone, and the dog is gone.

 

A ragged sigh of relief goes up from the people around you, and you think several people cheer, but you don’t notice. The police arrive and begin taking people’s testimonies, and those with injuries sustained by trying to get away are ushered towards ambulances. Dirk tells the questioning officer what happened, but you hear all of this as though underwater.

 

Because around the dog’s neck was a filthy red leather collar, and a foot and a half of chewed-off leash.

 

==>

 

You zone in and out of reality as Dirk drives both of you back home, thinking. Well, processing, mostly. Giant savage dogs leaping out of nowhere and then fizzling out again aren’t part of your everyday experience, wacky as your life is. Your mind pieces together the puzzle quickly, however: the dog is most likely Becquerel, the beast Nanna’s dear friend J. Harley called the Batterwitch’s favorite weapon, whatever that means. The leash you have was his. He can teleport like Jade. He is vicious, feral, and clearly very, very dangerous.

 

He may also be hunting you.

 

It’s that thought that solidifies in your mind. If you were a normal human being, you would be hyperventilating. You may yet do that. But you’ve been wired wrong for a long, long time, and as with murder investigations, as with sure fights, the idea of having something solid to pit your mind against is deliciously comforting.

 

“Most people don’t smile when confronted with slavering death.” Dirk’s voice cuts through your train of thought, and you realize the car has stopped and he’s opened the door for you. His face is blank, body language neutral, and you step out of the car once your brain catches up. His arm goes around your waist and his fingers curl possessively around the curve of your hip, which speaks volumes. It makes walking into your apartment building awkward, but it feels nice, so you let it stand.

 

Once back in the apartment, Dirk’s grip tightens when you go to change.

 

“We need to talk,” he says, and you nod once.

 

“Unzip me first,” you say, and Dirk obliges, planting a warm, wet kiss against the back of your neck once he’s done. You turn around and kiss his mouth properly before going to change. Once you have, you sit on the couch and wait for Dirk to materialize out of his room, shades abandoned and eyes creased with…worry? Stress?

 

“You know things,” Dirk says. “Fill me in.”

 

You only hesitate a second before spilling your guts. Once all the facts are on the table, including the connection between your past and Jake’s, Dirk sits back, crossing his arms.

 

“Okay,” he says slowly. “What do we do now? What’s the plan?”

 

You shrug. “I’m not positive it’s something we can do anything about, really. It could have been coincidence that the dog showed up. Though it might be good to alert the authorities about its existence so they can deal with it when the time comes.”

 

Dirk stares at you.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing, I’m just kind of underwhelmed here. You always have a plan, for everything. And that plan is _never_ sit back and do nothing.” Dirk leans back against the arm of the couch. You shrug. “I’m thinking we should invite Roxy over. She has that weird voidy aura that stopped Snowman, so it should work on a teleporting hellbeast, right?”

 

You shrug. “Probably.”

 

“And we should ask around to see where it came from. Maybe Jade would know something.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

Dirk looks at you, twisting his mouth, brows furrowing deeper.

 

“Jane.”

 

You stand up and walk towards the kitchen. Dirk swears quietly and follows you. You reach up in the cabinet and take down your decanter of rum, so lovingly replaced once you moved back in. You set it on the counter, but don’t get a glass, instead taking out the stopper and inhaling the scent. Dirk watches you, mouth quirked.

 

“Sorry,” you say, replacing the stopper and then putting the bottle up. “Reminds me of Dad sometimes.”

 

“I know.” He puts his hands on his hips. “Make me a promise?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Don’t chase this thing by yourself,” he says, and walks around the counter to take your face in his hands when you avoid his eyes. “Jane. Promise me you won’t do this without me.”

 

You grasp his wrists, by magnetic force unable to look away from his intense gaze, and want to deny him this. You always want to keep him out of trouble, while paradoxically dragging him headfirst into some of the worst messes of your collective lives. An argument from long, long ago rises unbidden:

 

 _“Jane, why didn’t you just_ tell me _what was going on? Why didn’t you trust me with this?”_

_“There’s a bigger picture I have to think about here. Don’t ask me, please don’t ask me. I know you want to, but you can’t follow me down this time.”_

Well…you all remember how well that turned out.

 

_“Will we never learn to actually trust each other?”_

_“Maybe we just aren’t supposed to. Maybe…maybe it’s time we both moved on.”_

 

Your fingers tighten around Dirk’s wrists and he strokes his thumbs across your cheeks. You can’t make your mouth work. Your throat is dry. Stupidly, your eyes are stinging, making you blink a lot. Dirk sighs through his nose, then leans forward until your foreheads are resting on each other.

 

“How many times do I have to prove to you that I’m with you all the way?” he whispers, a breath against your face. “You aren’t alone, Jane. You’ve never been alone. Not since you got me.”

 

You squeeze your eyes shut, transfer your hands to Dirk’s face, and kiss him, hot tears leaking from under your eyelids. Dirk wraps his arms around you, so tight it squeezes the breath from your lungs, and you have to grab his shoulders for balance. The kiss ends, and you breathe quietly with each other, faces still so close and touching. The air is electric between you. You’re afraid of it. You’re afraid of this, if you’re honest, afraid of what this means. Visions of John being shot in the chest suddenly materialize, and Karkat being slammed against a pipe-covered wall, and Dirk, Dirk with someone else’s blood on his face, Dirk with his _own_ blood sheeting from his scalp, Dirk with his arm in a sling and a black eye, Dirk hunched and crying over your grave, Dirk, Dirk, _Dirk_ —

 

You don’t know when you started crying in earnest, but your face is pressed to his chest as he cradles you against him, and he walks, setting you down on your bed before you know what’s going on and crawling in with you, and you cling to him and cry out all the fear and anger and pain you’ve been saving up since the last time you boo-hooed on him like this. Cold loathing piles up in your stomach, loathing for this weakness you’re showing, but you can’t make yourself care as you cry yourself dry and hover between wakefulness and sleep, Dirk’s wonderful warm fingers wiping your soaked cheeks and carding through your hair.

 

“Please don’t go where I can’t follow,” he murmurs, and you’re not sure if you’re dreaming or not but it’s nice. “Please don’t leave again. Please, please, please, please…”

 

Sleep swallows you whole and you dream.

 

==>

 

You awaken the next morning, not over-warm like you were expecting, but regular warm and with a slight headache from last night’s crying binge. You try to figure out what it is that woke you and realize two things: one, you’re alone in your bed, which is surprising, given that you’re usually the early riser; and two, there’s a quiet conversation punctuated by steady thumps coming from somewhere in the apartment.

 

You quietly open your door and pad out on silent feet. Said thumps sound an awful lot like the punching bag Dirk keeps in his closet these days, and the conversation is coming from that direction, as well. You duck into the empty bathroom and listen.

 

“—life, Dirky,” Roxy is saying, sounding tired. You know Jake is gone right now and ache for her a little. “Not that I don’t love you guys or nothin’, but I can’t just drop everything and spend every waking moment here.” Nothing but more rhythmic punches and grunts answers her. She sighs. “’sides, nothing to say that it couldn’t just track you guys down the old-fashioned way. I’m gonna leave you a few of our guns and I’ll be over as much as I can, but—”

 

“Thanks,” Dirk says curtly. You can hear the hurt on Roxy’s face from here. The blows landing on the punching bag pick up ever so slightly in intensity.

 

“What’s going on?” Roxy asks quietly. “And I know, scary teleporting hellbeast dog thing, but—what’s going on with _you_?”

 

You don’t want to hear this, even though you’ve been asking those very same questions yourself. But you can’t bring yourself to move as Dirk stops hitting the punching bag. It swings on its chain for a few minutes before someone steadies it with a hand, probably Dirk.

 

“Just a little tired,” Dirk says, his voice softer than before. “Worried.”

 

“You’re gonna worry an ulcer right through your stomach if you don’t talk to her about it,” Roxy says firmly. “Take it from me, Di-Stri. Not talking about it is the killer of all relationships.”

 

“I know,” he says, and he sounds…ancient. You bite your lip. “It’s just…hard to talk to her about. Y’know?”

 

“I know,” Roxy sighs. “But you gotta. Otherwise…otherwise, who knows what she’s gonna do to herself?”

 

“I love her,” Dirk says, fierce and low, “but I can’t watch her do this to herself much longer, Roxy, I can’t. I know she has nightmares. I know she cries herself to sleep even when I’m there. It’s too much for her but she just won’t see it, she won’t accept it.” Another punch, vicious this time, and the bag swings heavy and free. “Why can’t she forgive herself for anything? Why does she have to _push_ herself until there’s nothing left of her?”

 

“You’ll have to ask her,” Roxy says, and you tiptoe back to your room, closing the door. Is that true?

 

Ridiculous question. Of course it is. But it’s not a matter of forgiveness, you think as you re-exit the room, making sure to make lots of noise this time. You know your own limits, and just how far past them you can go. You have work to do. When the work is done, you will stop. Simple as that.

 

You greet Roxy as she rockets out of Dirk’s room to hug you, and you shower and make breakfast and do normal things that normal people do when looming threat of a “scary teleporting hellbeast dog thing” hangs overhead. Well, maybe not normal people. Maybe you just drink orange juice and muse on how you’re going to catch it. Dirk emerges from his own shower with a grim set to his mouth and purposeful, precise movements that remind you for some reason of how he moves when he fights. He accepts the bowl of cereal and the cup of milk you push his way, but doesn’t combine them into one and eat yet.

 

“I called Jade. She’ll be over soon. She passed me over to Karkat as soon as I explained the situation, so the police department has more details than they did last night. According to him as of five minutes ago, there haven’t been any sightings or mysterious deaths, so maybe shooting at it incapacitated it somehow.” He pours his milk over his cereal. You nod slowly, sipping your juice. “So after Jade gets here, what’s the plan?”

 

“I’ll let you know after I have more data,” you murmur, draining your glass and standing. There’s a knock at the door, which Roxy gets.

 

“Heya, Jade!” she chirps, and Jade laughs.

 

“I should’ve known you were here! I had to teleport a block away and that’s as close as I could get!” Jade exclaims, throwing her arms around Roxy’s neck. “How are you?”

 

They chatter over pleasantries for a moment before Dirk, who appears to have inhaled his cereal in record time, clears his throat as he sits in his customary seat on the couch. You sit next to him and indicate the armchair for Jade’s use after greeting her.

 

“So,” Jade says, settling into the chair, “Dirk told me what was going on, and I had to come see you as soon as I could. I have some things that you might find interesting.”

 

You note her bag, which looks heavy, and smile. “I love interesting things.”

 

“This might be a little too interesting,” Jade says, and pulls a file as thick as her wrist out of her bag, along with a framed picture. “First, this is my Grandpa Harley. Thought you might like to see it.” She passes you the picture, and you look at the young man who is the spitting image of Jake posing heroically with his hunting rifle and pith helmet. He has something of Jade in the eyes and the smile, though, something almost mischievous as opposed to dashing.

 

“He looks like quite a guy,” you say, passing it back. Jade takes it with a fond smile and touches the glass.

 

“He was,” she says. “That was just before he grew his moustache, I think. He didn’t talk a lot about his younger years.” She puts the picture away and taps the folder. “I think this might explain why.” She cracks it open, rifling through pages yellowed with age and covered in that blocky, mannish writing you remember from Nanna’s letters. “I didn’t find this until after I turned eighteen and the Harley Industries company passed to me directly. It…was a little difficult to understand then, so I put it out of my mind. It brought up a lot of hard memories.” Jade blinks, her eyes wet, and you lean forward to put your hand on her arm. She smiles, watery, and continues.

 

“Grandpa died when Jake was eight and I was six,” Jade says. “He raised us on the private island. We didn’t know about another place until a representative from the board of directors came to collect us. We were…less than pleased about that.” She laughs, a crackle of green sparks roving over her fingers. “I was still getting the hang of teleporting, but I would take us back to the island a lot. I think adjusting to normal life was harder for Jake than it was for me. I mean, it was always going to be hard, since we knew how to use most firearms and could wrestle wild animals even as kids, but Jake loved the island. He loved the solidarity.”

 

From her place on the floor, Roxy makes a tiny sigh, her expression a curious mixture of fondness and pain, then gets up, walking out the door. Dirk frowns and instantly goes for his phone, texting rapidly. Jade opens her mouth, glances at you, and shakes her head.

 

“Anyway, when Grandpa was alive, he wanted to make sure we could take care of ourselves, so from the time I could walk, I had a gun in my hands. He was very loving and affectionate, but he had…he had moods, sometimes.” Jade stops, hesitating, before handing you a Polaroid picture. It’s of an older version of the man you saw in the picture frame, moustached and leathery, and while his mouth is smiling, his eyes are cold, almost hard. The disparity makes you shiver despite yourself. “Sometimes he would leave for days and come back mumbling about a beast that always escaped him. Now and then he would put us to bed and we’d wake up in the middle of the night with him prowling through the house, armed with an old musket and whistling softly. He told us to go back to bed whenever he caught us and he sounded…so afraid.”

 

“Did he ever hurt you?” Dirk said, tone neutral, but Jade shakes her head as vehemently as if he’d been accusatory.

 

“No, he was always in his right mind. I have no doubt about that. But before he died…” she hesitates again. “Before he died, he started acting jumpier than usual. He tripled the security measures and didn’t let me and Jake leave the manor for longer than an hour or two at a time. One night I had a nightmare and went to go look for him, and I found him staring at his hands with a half-empty whiskey bottle on the table and a loaded rifle next to him. He sat me on his knee and told me, completely seriously, that if I ever met a big dog that could do what I did, I needed to kill it as soon as I could, or it would kill me. I thought he was drunk, because he told me for years that what I could do was special. He ran all kinds of blood tests and stuff and he said he’d never seen anything like me.” Jade rubs her arms. “Until…until last night, I didn’t think anything of it.”

 

You look at the file in her hands. “How did he die? If you don’t mind me asking?”

 

Jade laughs shakily. “Shot five times in the chest with the gun he was holding. The powder burns were on his hands so it was ruled the most bizarre suicide anyone had ever seen and quietly covered up. I used to try to solve how he died so many times when I was little, but…Jake told me to stop. I think it scared him, how obsessed I got.” Jade stares into space for several seconds before shaking herself. “Anyway, when I was eighteen, I found this file. It’s about something Grandpa was studying, the beast he was always talking about.” She passes it to you, and you read the neat label with no small thrill: Becquerel.

 

“Have you read this?” you ask, thumbing through it.

 

“Not really. Like I said, I didn’t understand it and I was working on my master’s degree by then, so I was busy.” Jade leans back. “I thought, given the circumstances, it might be useful.”

 

“Yeah,” you say absently, taking the file to the table and opening it wide. “Thanks.”

 

“Need help?” Dirk asks. You shake your head and tune out the conversation they start a few minutes after you start sorting through the papers.

 

Grandpa Harley was every bit as scatterbrained as his grandson, as it turns out; the file is a mess, not organized by any system you can understand, so it takes a while to sort through personal accounts, blurred pictures, what looks like blueprints, and a small book that just has the word MEOW in purple script written over and over in differing sequences. The book, you set aside. Maybe Grandpa Harley thought it was funny. But you start noticing something about the papers; along the top is scrawled either a B or an N, and you sort them accordingly. The N pile is clearly much older and much thicker, even given the amount of papers that have neither B nor N, and the B stack is newer. In all, a huge dog, a “hound,” is mentioned. There are no pictures in the B pile, but plenty of blurry old photographs of some enormous fanged monster in the N pile.

 

You start reading, but the handwriting is sometimes skewed and sloppy. It’s slow going. The blueprints appear to be more like sketches of the animal’s physiology, but there are two different sketches, one with much longer fur. Maybe a before and after? No…the longer-furred sketch is newer, you can tell by the paper. The handwriting on that one is hard to read, miniscule and using acronyms you don’t understand. You sort to the best of your ability, then sit back, looking at your work. The significance of the B and N elude you still, but maybe it’s an indicator of the chronology. Before and…Nafter? Nafter isn’t a word, don’t be stupid. Near? As in nearer the present time? But what would the divisive moment between Before and Nearer be?

 

“Jane,” Dirk says loudly, and you start, jerking in your chair. “Jade’s leaving.”

 

“Oh,” you say, and stand. “I hope it’s alright if I hang onto this file, Jade.”

 

“It’s fine,” she says, and hugs you tight. “Just be careful, okay?”

 

“I always am,” you say with a crooked smile, and the look Jade gives you is…exasperated. She pats your shoulder, hugs Dirk goodbye, and leaves. Once the door is shut, Dirk turns to you.

 

“Well?” Anything useful?”

 

You shrug. “I’m not sure yet.” You return to the piles, registering in the back of your mind the tiniest of sighs that Dirk makes.

 

==>

 

You’re drowsing on the couch, the table still piled high with files, when Dirk’s phone goes off around one in the morning.

 

“Hey, Rox,” Dirk says. As you rub your eyes, you can hear Roxy’s voice as a high, panicked buzz. “Slow down. What happened?”

 

You put your glasses back on and see that Dirk is rigid. He slides his feet into his shoes as you quickly comb your fingers through your hair and reach for your own phone, which you notice with chagrin that you left on silent. Six missed calls from Roxy.

 

“We’re on our way,” Dirk says, and hangs up, crossing the room in fluid strides to grab his keys. You follow him out, locking the door.

 

“Hospital,” Dirk says as he starts the car. The windshield is still a cracked mess of bullet holes, but Dirk guns it as if the cracks don’t bother him at all. “Callie’s in there.”

 

“Callie?” you say blankly. “Why would Callie be in the hospital?”

 

“Dunno. Roxy wouldn’t say.”

 

That is the extent of the conversation until you get to the front desk of the hospital and ask to see Calliope. The nurse who shows you the way looks shaken.

 

“She lost a lot of blood,” he says, “and there’s a lot of internal damage. Whatever attacked her was probably huge. Big enough to take her on, anyway.” The nurse laughs nervously, scratching at his hornbeds. “Miss Lalonde was her emergency contact, so she’s been here for a while.”

 

“How’s Calliope?” you ask, but as you enter the room, you can suss it out for yourself. Callie’s enormous muscular body has been laid out on the biggest hospital bed you’ve ever seen, swathed in a medical robe and blankets, and she is a mess of needles and machines, a breathing mask over her face. You register Roxy as a pale smear in the background, but your attention is on the bandages covering half of Callie’s face and her neck. There are dark greenish bruises up and down her arms as well as more bandages on her right forearm. Your heart jumps into your throat as you notice the green stain seeping through the edge of one bandage.

 

“We put her in a medically-induced coma for now,” the nurse says. “At this point it’s hard to tell, but we’re optimistic that with time she’ll recover.”

 

“Thank you,” you say, mechanically, and stop noticing his presence. You wish you could lift one of Callie’s bandages to see what kind of wounds are underneath, but you have enough brains left to not be that stupid. You feel hands on your shoulders and let Dirk guide you into a chair next to Roxy, who takes your hand as soon as you sit down.

 

“How?” you murmur, unable to tear your eyes away from Callie’s prone form. “Why?”

 

“Doc said it looked like an animal attack,” Roxy whispers, and her fingers clench painfully around yours. “A big dog, maybe.”

 

Tears sting at your eyes, and at that exact moment, your phone buzzes.

 

You check it to see who the message is from, and your attention is caught when you notice that it’s blank. No sender. No message. Just a blank text box. You frown, then put it back in your pocket.

 

“It’s that monster dog, isn’t it,” Roxy says. “That’s the only thing that could’ve done it.”

 

You can’t make yourself form the words. You just watch Callie sleep, and after a moment, take Dirk’s hand when he pulls up a chair next to you.

 

==>

 

You wake up cramped and exhausted from sleeping in a chair for most of the night. The sunlight streaming in through the window makes Callie look even more pitiful and you hate it for that. You then notice that Dirk and Roxy are both gone and rub your eyes, sighing.

 

Your phone buzzes again. You take it out, and see another blank message. You frown, then move to put it away when something catches your eye. Something about the way you just tilted your phone…you tilt it away from you, at eye-level, and widen your eyes in surprise. There _is_ a message. It’s in white text.

 

You highlight the messages, and the words appear.

 

**Hello, Miss Crocker. It’s been a while. Why don’t we have a nice talk over tea?**

 

Your stomach heaves violently.

 

**I believe you know of a perfectly charming little café downtown. Eleven o’clock. Don’t be late.**

 

You close your eyes and take a moment to breathe. Then you check the time. Nine-thirty. If you take a cab back to the apartment you have just enough time to freshen up. You stand, then put your hand on Callie’s enormous, still claw.

 

“Don’t worry, Callie,” you say softly. “That thing will pay for this.”

 

You leave a note for Dirk and Roxy and leave the hospital.

 

==>

 

There is a man sitting at your usual table. He’s small, elderly, bald, and wearing a white suit accented with lime green. There’s an odd flatness in his eyes and a small smile on his lips. He stands and extends his hand.

 

“My, how lovely you look, Miss Crocker,” he says, and pulls back your chair. You sit, adjust your skirt, and wait for him to be seated. “I trust your journey was pleasant?”

 

“Perfectly,” you say, making eye contact with the waiter and nodding. In a moment you’re brought a glass of lemonade. “That’s a new look you’re sporting, Mr. Scratch.”

 

“Doc Scratch, dear,” the old man chides, folding his hands. “I do not have the title merely for aesthetic.” His mouth suddenly goes slack on one side, and a string of drool leaks. In a second his face snaps back to its mild, benign appearance, and he dabs at his mouth with a napkin. “Apologies. This body is so…organic. But on short notice, it was the only one available.” He smiles. “Shot by a bullet from nowhere, poor soul.”

 

Your stomach clenches hard. You fight panic down ruthlessly, meeting Scratch’s eyes with calm. You force yourself to think of the man only as Scratch, not as a poor innocent you inadvertently killed by shooting at a monster dog with teleportation abilities.

 

“I imagine you have questions,” Scratch says, straightening the napkin holder and condiment bottles. “Allow me to answer them. I am not back from the dead, merely free from imprisonment. I cannot truly die, as I am a being of, if you’ll forgive the lack of modesty, rather immense cosmic power.”

 

You sip your lemonade. “Explain it to me, then. How are you here?”

 

“Patience, Detective,” Scratch chuckles. It ends in a groan, which cuts off quickly as Scratch works to master his body again. “Sorry. As I was saying, I am a being of cosmic power, not of flesh and blood. No doubt you knew this, from my former occupancy of a foam puppet.”

 

“And an incubator for Caliborn,” you say. Scratch nods.

 

“The plan to give him his true form was rather simple. I merely lent him my power, which was used to stimulate the growth in his body. Then, once his body was complete, he emerged, and my consciousness hitched a ride with his, so to speak.

 

“Then that…business…with Calliope occurred,” Scratch says, and his fingers momentarily spasm. “I was unaware of her existence, though it was a possibility that occurred to me. I am very nearly omniscient, after all.”

 

“Very nearly,” you say, and Scratch’s eyes drift for a moment before coming back to your face.

 

“Very nearly,” he repeats. “I was not expecting her, nor was I expecting the ferocity with which she attacked her brother. She managed to overwhelm us both, killing Lord English’s soul and trapping mine. It was a bold stroke I can appreciate.” He smiles. “However, living as a tenant in a body did not sit well with me. I am an excellent guest, but a less excellent prisoner.”

 

“How did she subdue you, if you have such cosmic power?” you ask.

 

“More power than I intended poured into Lord English’s body, and with it, I was tightly bound to it,” Scratch explains. “I was much weakened from the exchange, and I’m afraid keeping me in a box in the back of her mind, to use a turn of phrase, was absurdly easy for Calliope.

 

“However,” he continues, “with time, I began to rebuild my strength. Calliope could sense it, of course, and used various ingenious mental tricks to keep me at bay. But with so much of my own self invested into her very body, as I grew stronger, her ability to contain me weakened.

 

“An opportune moment appeared when she went on the hunt for a mysterious beast,” he smiles, and you resist the urge to gulp. “She badly underestimated the toll fighting both myself and the hound would take on her. The hound ravaged her body. I escaped her mind.”

 

“And here you are,” you say.

 

“And here I am,” he agrees, and chuckles. “A new game begins, Miss Crocker. I assure you that I will play fairly. I am an excellent host.”

 

“And what’s the game?” you ask. He smiles, and somehow his eyes seem even more lifeless.

 

“Settling old scores,” he says, and stands. “Rook takes bishop. Check.”

 

He sets a white bowler cap with a green band on his head, and walks with a little limp out of the door.

 

After a few minutes, you follow suit, your mind racing.

 

Settling old scores. Okay, let’s make a tally: everyone who’s ever crossed Scratch that isn’t already dead. You, obviously. Spades Slick, possibly, you haven’t checked up on him lately. Who else? John? Dirk? Roxy? All connected with you and Callie, which would make them excellent targets. Given his chess metaphor, it’s possible he’s saving you for last, which means he’s going to pick off people around you. But vengeance for its own sake was never Scratch’s style…who else? Who else? You wrack your brains and an answer so obvious smacks you in the face: Detective Vantas. Gamzee Makara. They were both complicit in Lord English’s downfall. That might put Jade in the line of fire, as well.

 

A handful of police officers, perhaps a few gangsters left over from the Midnight Crew, and maybe a very unlucky diner owner. That’s as complete a list as you can make, and you know with a heavy heart that you can’t save all of them. You can try, but against a being like Scratch, even with his malfunctioning body, you’d have to move quickly and he’s already started the game. This on top of the murderous hellbeast loose, if Scratch hasn’t already figured out a way to enslave it. You wouldn’t put it past him. At this point, there’s very little you would. His letting you in on the secret is his way of being sportsmanlike, but he plays to win. You know this very well.

 

The one thing you can count on is Scratch’s love of showmanship, even if he is not the center of the show. Crafting a spectacle takes time, even with the manifold assets he has at his disposal. You work quietly and swiftly. It’s your greatest strength.

 

Check. There’s no doubt in your mind who your king is. And there is also no doubt as to the lengths you’ll go to save him.

 

My turn, you think grimly, and move.

 

==>

 

You pull some strings, send Dirk a reassuring text, and wait patiently for Slick to appear on the other side of the glass. He shambles in like an old man, glaring at the world at large. When he sees you, he starts laughing, throwing himself down in the chair and picking up the receiver on his end.

 

“Lookit this, the bigshot detective!” he crows. “How are you, kid?”

 

“Well, thank you,” you say primly. For some ungodly reason he seems fond of you now. “I thought I’d come and check in.”

 

“That’s civil of you. Thanks.” He cradles the receiver against his shoulder and scratches at his scarred-over eye. You notice his carapace is looking a little greyed, more battered. Are his joints cracking? “Whatcha need? You wouldn’t be here just for a nice chat.”

 

“I would like to give you a word of warning,” you say. “I’m just not sure that you’re gonna believe me.”

 

“Kid, I’ve seen a lot of garbage in my life. Cherubs busting out of puppets, dead detectives coming back on live television, the meatloaf special here on Wednesdays. Lot of stuff.” He leans his head against his fist. “What is it?”

 

“An old mutual acquaintance of ours seems to have pulled a Crocker,” you say carefully. “I think he’s going to begin resettling the score between himself and everyone left who was involved with his downfall.”

 

Slick stares at you for a moment. “Crocker, if you’re telling me your old man has risen from the grave—”

 

“No,” you snap. “Someone else. I believe someone once referred to him as annoying as a scratch on a record.”

 

Slick furrows his brow, and then his face goes slack. “Oh.”

 

“I know there’s not much that you can do from in there, and I’m certainly not going to risk my neck to protect you when I have other people who need me, but I thought I would give you a head start,” you say. Slick studies you, chewing on a cuticle.

 

“Why?” he asks. “Kid, we both know it was orders I was following when I…when it all went down, but the fact of the matter is, I killed your dad. You and your brother nearly got my goat before deciding I was better off in here.” He meets your eyes and holds them. “What skin’s off your nose if he snuffs me out?”

 

You hesitate. You’ve asked yourself this many times today. It would certainly be no great loss if Spades Slick were to be murdered in prison, but the fact is, you can’t just stand by and let it happen. You’ve seen too many people die in your line of work to not at least try to preserve a life, no matter how despicable.

 

“Because I don’t want him to win,” you say simply. “And every life he takes is another victory in his game.”

 

You stare at each other for what seems like several minutes. Slick crackles through a laugh that sounds like it’s half coughing.

 

“You’re not a bad kid, Crocker,” he says. “I’ll keep my eye open.”

 

You nod and hang up the receiver, walking away. Next move.

 

==>

 

“I can’t believe we let this sit for so long,” John complains after a long bout of sneezing. You look up from where you’re making a list of everything that your helpful trusty work crew are hefting out and smile.

 

“I think we’ve been justly preoccupied,” you say mildly. “Karkat, don’t try to lift that by yourself, please. It’s an antique.”

 

Karkat’s grumbling is soon replaced by panting as he and Dave lift the ancient sewing machine from its resting place near the back of the storage unit and drag it to the light, where Roxy and Jade are dusting. Terezi is at work, Rose and Kanaya are watching baby Django, and Dirk is rubbing your shoulders, currently. You might have pulled a little too hard on old scars earlier, sliding boxes out. His deft fingers working on your muscles feel incredible.

 

“That’s everything,” John yells from the back of the unit, lounging across the couch that made him sneeze. “What do you think?”

 

“I think you should come out here and get some fresh air,” you call back, and John laughs before obliging. He sits down next to you on a stack of boxes and whistles.

 

“We could probably fetch a pretty penny for a lot of this stuff,” John says.

 

“Old man clothes sell for like a billion dollars now thanks to that one song,” Dave calls from where he’s rummaging through some boxes.

 

“Excuse you, our father was in the prime of his life when he died,” you scold. “Those are hardly old man clothes.”

 

“Your dad was a fox, Janey,” Roxy announces, followed by a smirk and a purr. “Total hotstuff.”

 

“Eurgh,” John says, at the same time you make a face to fit. The timing of it causes you both to start laughing. You lean your head on John’s shoulder, reaching over your own to hold one of Dirk’s hands.

 

“I miss him,” you say, and John’s arm goes around your shoulders. Dirk slides away, leaving just you and your brother. “It kind of kills me to part with this stuff, but…”

 

“It’s not doing any good rotting in a storage unit,” John nods. You both heave a sigh. Then John pats your arm and stands.

 

“Let’s put this stuff back,” he says. “Boxes at the back, furniture at the front.”

 

It takes much less time to stack everything back in, and John pulls the door down to lock it. Dirk’s arm goes back around your waist as soon as he’s finished. Your stomach growls loudly.

 

“Lunchtime,” Jade chirps. “On me! Anywhere in particular you want to go, John? Jane?”

 

“Anywhere with food,” John says fervently.

 

“That rules out most restaurants, then, bro,” Dave says, and John grins and smacks him. As you all pile into Dave’s van, good-natured bickering breaks out over the merits of a barbeque joint versus sushi, and you let it all wash over you, closing your eyes and resting your head against the window. Dirk’s hand encloses yours, and you give it a gentle squeeze. He’s been very touchy-feely today.

 

Roxy’s presence in this group of your friends is the one true balm to your nerves, though you know a void shield is far from impervious. Your eyes ache behind your lids, a reminder of the lack of sleep you’ve gotten the past few days. Someone asks you a question, and you give a vague answer about your food preferences.

 

Getting even. Doesn’t necessarily have to mean death, but you know very well that Scratch’s revenge plots often come with a price tag that high. The rules of this game are different from all others you’ve played in your life; there’s no end goal on your end, no king to capture. Just a fight against a renegade queen piece that refuses to leave the board. If he’s going to create his own rules, you muse, you have to, as well.

 

“Jane.”

 

Your eyes snap open, and Dirk tugs on your arm. “We’re here,” he says, and you hastily climb out of the van after him. Apparently the consensus was for Casa Blanca. You force a smile and make only token efforts to join the conversation around you. Dirk’s mouth is a permanent line and John keeps glancing at you with a little divot between his brows, but you just keep smiling, picking at your rice and thinking.

 

Lunch goes without incident, other than the usual bickering and laughing and noise that comes with your friend group, and as you all file back into Dave’s van your spine relaxes. You should get some more sleep, constantly worrying won’t make it any—

 

Your thought is interrupted by Dave swearing loudly, screeching tires, and a van-shuddering _crunch_. The seatbelts all snap to attention as the bodies behind them jerk with the momentum, and the van spins before Dave manages to get it under control and park on the side of the road.

 

“What was that?” Jade cries.

 

“Is everybody okay?” Karkat barks, to which a dazed chorus of affirmations respond.

 

“Dog,” Dave says tersely. “Big one. Just came out of nowhere.”

 

Your heart leaps straight into your throat, and you scramble towards the front of the van, looking wildly for signs of beady red eyes or hulking black forms.

 

“Probably gonna have fur stuck up in the grille for a while,” Dave says, and forces the van door open. You all follow, climbing out of the van on wobbly legs (at least, yours are). The front of the van barely looks dented, though there is indeed a large quantity of white fur stuck in the craggy grille of the van. You force yourself to breathe. Just a regular dog, then. You look back along the road.

 

“Think it ran off,” Dirk says. “Pop the hood, bro, let’s get a look to make sure nothing’s busted.”

 

While the Striders and Jade gather around the innards of the van, Roxy, Karkat, John, and you walk down the length of the road a ways, following the skid marks of the van’s tires. You make it to about the spot you think the dog hit and look around. It’s a quiet backroad, with traffic rumbling by every few minutes or so. Maybe a nearby neighborhood’s dog? You examine the direction it would have gone and frown. The grass of the side of the road is flat and torn from where the van skidded, but you expected to see blood or more fur and there isn’t any. Not so much as a paw print in the mud at the bottom of the nearby ditch. And the empty field next to you is right behind a gas station, so surely, if it was injured, it wouldn’t have gotten far without leaving some kind of trace…

 

“Van’s fine,” Dave yells as the hood slams shut. “Everybody back in the party wagon.”

 

“You’d think that for something that big there’d be more damage,” Jade says as you all climb back into the van. “It didn’t seem to hit us that hard, either.”

 

“Luck of the Strider,” Dave says as he pulls back onto the road, patting the dashboard. “Ain’t that right, Bessy?”

 

“Bessy?” Karkat snorts, and from there another argument devolves around you as you close your eyes. You doze until Dirk nudges you awake outside of your apartment, and you let him say your goodbyes and thank yous. He keeps his arm around you until you’re through the door of the apartment; once the door is closed and locked, he merely pecks your cheek and disappears inside the bathroom. You collapse onto the couch for a quick nap, but without the chatter of people and the rumbling of the van, sleep eludes you. You keep trying, forcing your eyes to remain closed and your breathing to be even. The bathroom door opens and closes.

 

Then Dirk’s weight drops on you out of nowhere, and in surprise you shriek as the force of the bounce causes you both to fall right off the couch and land in a heap on the floor. Once the initial shock wears off you start laughing, which intensifies as Dirk stubbornly locks his arms around you and plays dead.

 

“Dirk!” you wheeze through laughing. “Get off!”

 

He lets out the biggest, fakest snore of all time, cracking an eye open behind his shades to see if you’re buying it. You find the spot just below his ribs that’s most ticklish and he lasts all of ten seconds before rolling out of the way of your fingers.

 

It’s been a little while since you chased each other around the apartment, but as you do, the weight you’ve been carrying for days seems to melt away for a little while. You can’t breathe for laughing when you finally corner him against the couch, tickling everywhere you can reach, until Dirk heaves you around and pins you, his face bare and grinning, eyes glowing with warmth.

 

And now the impasse, as you both catch your breath, staring at each other and smiling. It’s hard to know who kisses whom first, but regardless within minutes you are well into a lazy makeout session, mouths sliding unhurriedly from moment to moment, fingers furrowing through hair, just the barest edge of heat to keep you both going.

 

It’s moments like this when your world goes rosy on the edges, when you manage to forget for however long he holds you that you don’t deserve what you have. You can pretend for a little while that you’re safe, that nothing bad can happen, that nothing will ever change. You outline him with your fingertips, memorizing what you committed to memory long ago, tilting your head back as he plants kisses down the side of your neck, his hand gently following the underside curve of your thigh.

 

“I love you,” you whisper into the air, to which he responds by sucking hard on the skin of your collarbone and hitching up your leg a little higher. He kisses his way back up to your mouth, and from there things get a little hazy until you stop for a breather, foreheads pressed together, the air electric once more. You’re still afraid of it, but nothing can hurt you right now and you leave it be.

 

“I love you, too,” he murmurs, and kisses your nose. Then he yawns and buries his face in the crook of your neck. “Naptime now.”

 

“Dirk!” you giggle, but this time you’re warm and he’s warm and falling asleep isn’t so hard.

 

==>

 

Around four AM you wake up, scooch out of bed, pull on an oversized cardigan, and grab your gun. You’ve become used to tiptoeing around the apartment like this, so much so that you know exactly where the floor creaks and how to open the front door and close it again silently, even with Dirk softly snoring on the couch, the TV set on a muted infomercial. You tuck your gun into your holster, zip up your jacket over your loose t-shirt and shorts, take a second to tie your sneakers properly, and set out.

 

You don’t bring your phone on these excursions. You don’t want to be disturbed. If Dirk knows about it, he doesn’t say anything, and you certainly aren’t going to talk about it. Another one of the many things you keep buried, which in all honesty probably isn’t that healthy, but you never really made a claim on good health, so there. Walking the streets every so often makes you feel alive; it reminds you of what it was like, back when you were a young detective making her way onto the scene. Before Lord English, before the Batterwitch—before Dirk, if you’re honest with yourself. It’s a feeling of no consequences, where you don’t have to think about the impact of your steps and the kickback to every action.

 

You let your feet decide the route and let your mind wander as you scan the streets, which are mostly empty except for early-morning commuters and the occasional late-night partier. The sun won’t even be a thought for at least an hour, a few stars winking through the light pollution of Altville, and you breathe the cool air deep into your lungs and hold it for a moment. This is your city. Every time you had to leave it you missed it, missed it like a limb. You did the best you could to avoid Dirk during those times you were back—avoid checking up on him, avoid contacting him, avoiding everything to do with him—but there were some slip-ups, some moments when it couldn’t be avoided. You thought he nearly recognized you all three times, most definitely when you were disguised as a troll and went to pay your yearly respects to the victims of your cases.

 

You’d denied then that it had hurt the tiniest bit when he didn’t. If pressed, you will continue to deny it. But you didn’t start walking to think about Dirk, so let’s derail that train of thought right now, buster.

 

Your nerves feel rubbed raw when you return to the jigsaw puzzle that is your current investigation, looped with the newest game with Scratch. You’ve been glued to the police scanners every free moment you can snatch while Dirk is distracted, and keeping frequent tabs on all of your at-risk friends. Sooner or later something will give—either Scratch’s patience or yours, and from experience you know which one it is.

 

Your feet have carried you to the cemetery. You pick your way around the grounds until you’re back where you always find yourself in times of mental distress—the place you began, the very ground in which you buried your father and planted the seed of Detective Crocker. You sit down in front of his headstone, conscious of the weight of the gun you carry, and silently do some maintenance on the grave. You pull up weeds and wipe off dead grass from the mowers, clean the dirt out of the lettering as best you can, sweep away the dead leaves with your hand. When it looks presentable, you turn around and relax against it.

 

“Hi, Dad,” you say quietly, and even at a whisper your voice sounds too loud. You swallow several times, but your throat decides to dry up entirely, so you don’t push it, resting your head back against the cool granite and closing your eyes. Sometimes, it’s better just to feel, not to ruin the moment with words.

 

You might’ve started dozing when a loud _crack_ jolts you back to consciousness, a whiff of ozone curling against your nose, and dread pools in your gut as you scramble to your feet, your hand automatically reaching for your gun. A few feet away you can see it, blacker than the night around it, hulking and red-eyed and growling. But not at you, you realize, even as you aim your gun.

 

Another crackle of green electricity splits the night, and the hound snarls, creating yet another portal and hurling itself through, just as a second dog steps onto the cemetery grass.

 

You don’t lower your gun but you marvel at the new arrival—it’s white, blindingly so, long-haired and somehow cleaner-cut than the black hound. Its eyes are dark, its snarl calming into a displeased wrinkling of the snout as it observes you. Somehow it’s bigger than the hound, but that might just be the fur, which is fairly alive with green static. You stare at each other for a long moment, and you don’t know why, but you lower your gun.

 

The dog huffs and in another flash of green disappears into the night.

 

Your legs wobble, but you don’t collapse. Instead, you push yourself into walking, then running, holstering your gun in the process.

You need to talk to Jade.

 

==>

 

It’s a bleary-eyed Karkat who answers your banging on the cottage door at roughly six AM.

 

“Jane?” he mumbles, rubbing his face. “’s butts o’clock in the morning, why—”

 

“I need to talk to Jade,” you say, in an unintentionally clipped voice. “Now.”

 

Blessedly, he merely nods and disappears inside with the door open. You take that as an invitation and let yourself in, foregoing sitting in favor of anxious toe-tapping. Jade appears a few moments later, wrapped in a faded fluffy bathrobe and throwing her loose braid over her shoulder.

 

“Jane?” Jade says, taking your hand as she steps near. Her eyes are clear and alert, which is another small blessing. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Did your grandpa ever mention another dog?” you ask, and Jade’s brows furrow.

 

“Another dog?”

 

“Any dog,” you say, then frown. “A white dog. With long fur.”

 

“Are you talking about Bec?” she asks.

 

“No, Bec was black,” you say, shaking your head. “I mean—”

 

“Bec was white,” Jade says, and you both pause and look at each other.

 

“Start from the beginning,” you say, finally sitting on the couch. Jade follows suit, adjusting her robe over her legs.

 

“Bec was short for Becquerel,” Jade says. “She was our dog, back when Jake and I were kids. She disappeared sometime before Grandpa died. He told us something in the jungle got her, we had a funeral for her and everything. I used to love snuggling up in her fur, because it was long and white and fluffy.” She crosses her arms. “Now what are you talking about?”

 

“Becquerel was a dog my grandmother owned,” you say slowly. “He was the beast in the file you brought me. Your grandpa wrote my Nanna letters about him.”

 

You assume John filled her in on your shared family history, because Jade doesn’t seem surprised. “There was no name attached to the few reports I was able to sift through. Are you sure it’s the same one?”

 

“As I can be,” you murmur, leaning back against the arm of the couch. “I assume Grandpa named your dog?”

 

“Well, a two-year-old and four-year-old certainly didn’t,” Jade snorts. “We were smart, but not quite that smart.” She sobers. “Why would my grandpa name our dog after a monster dog from his past?”

 

“Why, indeed,” you say, and stand. “Thank you, Jade. You’ve been invaluable.”

 

“Make sure you’re talking to someone about all this, Jane,” Jade says, standing as well. “I mean it. There’s a reason you have a partner, you know.”

 

You simply smile and leave before she can think to check for Dirk’s car and ask how you got here.

 

As you walk back, you ponder the information, then try to plug it in to the narrative already unfolding: Grandpa Harley and Nanna were adopted by Meenah in an effort to propagate her Betty Crocker image, in tandem with her marriage to Colonel Sassacre. They also had a dog, of whom at least Grandpa was fond, given his letter. Something happened to the original Becquerel after Grandpa Harley ran away, something dangerous, and from then on Meenah used him as a hunting dog, for all intents and purposes, starting with the mauling of her husband. Somehow Bec was chained and contained, but not before it might have killed your Nanna.

 

(You spare a second of thought on the irony that most of your family members seem to have died via brutal murder, then tuck it away for a more appropriately morbid moment.)

 

Fast forwarding several years, Grandpa Harley acquired a new dog, a white dog he also named Becquerel, who supposedly died when Jade and Jake were young. You strongly doubt that, given the evidence in the Harley Industries file and what you’ve seen this morning. You also think it was the white dog that Dave hit with his van yesterday. For some reason, the white hound is chasing the black, but you can’t be sure that the white dog is any tamer. Unanswered questions you don’t know how to get the answers to flash through your mind—how are the dogs able to teleport? Who made them that way? How was Grandpa Harley or whoever experimented on the second Bec able to replicate the success of the first? Where were they all this time? Why now have they been unleashed?

 

You pass by a coffee shop, which lets you know your absent walking has led you back into downtown, but through the bustle of early risers and sleepy chatter, a news reporter’s voice catches your ear—

 

“—Slick, convicted mobster sentenced to life without parole, was reported missing by the warden of the Altville City Prison at five-thirty this morning,” the reporter says, and you blank out, blindly pushing through the crowd to stare up at the well-dressed carapace giving her report through the television. “Police on the scene have reported that there is no evidence of foul play or that the suspect broke out of his cell, leading some to question whether this was an inside job. We will keep you informed as the situation develops, but police are cautioning that there may be a dangerous criminal loose on our streets once again.”

 

You push out of the coffee shop at a dead run and don’t stop until you reach the apartment.

 

==>

 

You startle Dirk so badly when you fling open the door that he tumbles off the couch, swearing. You take no notice of him, slamming the door shut and starting your pacing around the living room. When Dirk says your name, you flap your hand at him to shush him and keep pacing.

 

Places Scratch would dump the body: the old Felt mansion, possibly; it was the culmination of the bloody feud between the Felt and the Midnight Crew. Royal Flush, the old Midnight Crew nightclub. One of the many warehouses that changed hands while the gang wars were still hot. How long would it take you to check them all? Well, if you left now, possibly no more than a few hours, but going and searching might lead into a trap…would Scratch kill Slick in your old family home? The idea has merit, if his death is meant to be a slap in your face, but you ultimately discard the theory; Slick’s value to you isn’t significant enough for that, whereas Scratch’s grudge against him for killing his entire operation is a better motivator. Should you wait for the body to be discovered?

 

You chew on that for a moment, then shoot a rapid-fire text to Karkat to pass along to whoever is leading that investigation: _check the Felt/MC war zones_.

 

Slick was a neutral piece at best, hardly one on your side; this is a preliminary maneuver, something to test the waters. But still, best to be prepared, the next step is either going to be—

 

Someone grabs your shoulders and gives you a singular hard shake. Your head snaps harder than you thought it would, and dizzily you look up at Dirk and his taut expression. He hasn’t put his shades on for the day yet, but even with them on, the set of his brows would tell you nearly everything.

 

For a mad moment, you consider not telling him—in fact, you consider for several moments the merits of lying, of sending him on some wild goose chase out of harm. Then some iron fist clenches your heart at the thought of being away from him again, of not being able to protect him. You swallow hard enough to draw prickling tears, then banish them with an impatient shake of your head. Not now.

 

“There are two dogs,” you say, “and Slick’s disappeared from prison.”

 

Dirk’s eyes widen, his mouth going slack for a moment before tightening again.

 

“You might wanna start from the beginning.”

 

You fetch the file from your room, then separate the stacks once more—the older, more elaborate N, and the newer, mysterious B. You still don’t quite understand the importance of further differentiating between the two, if they’re two different colors, but that’s not important right now.

 

“There are two dogs,” you repeat. “I understand this now—the black one, the older one, he was Meenah’s weapon. But there was another one made, a white one, twenty-odd years ago.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“I saw it,” you say, and before Dirk can do much more than start to grimace, you go on. “It seemed like the white one was chasing the black one. So I went to Jade and asked about it. She said that she used to have a dog when she and Jake were toddlers, a big white dog also named Becquerel.” You meet Dirk’s eyes and watch them widen. “I don’t know how, but somehow Grandpa Harley managed to make a second teleporting hellbeast.”

 

“Two,” Dirk says faintly, sitting back on his heels, then sprawling out on the floor. “Two murderous teleporting hellbeasts. Two of them.”

 

“I’m not sure the white one is unfriendly,” you say thoughtfully. “At least, it doesn’t have any interest in anything other than chasing the black. It looked at me for a few moments before resuming its chase.”

 

“And where exactly were you, when it appeared?” Dirk asked, sitting up. When you hesitate, he sighs. “I know you leave the apartment, Jane, I’m not an idiot. Where were you?”

 

“The cemetery,” you say. “I have a hunch that the black hound was possibly trying to make another pass at me, but that might be pure fancy. As to how the white was there for us to hit with Dave’s van, I’m not sure, but I would hazard that the black one wasn’t too far ahead.”

 

Dirk sighs again, scooting around your piles on the floor and putting his arm around your shoulders. You lean into him and wait.

 

“I wish it wasn’t always you,” he says, softly, so softly you almost miss it. “I know it’s not your fault, but gog, Jane, I wish it wasn’t always you.”

 

“I’d rather me than anyone else,” you say, and Dirk’s arm tightens almost painfully.

 

“When will—never mind,” he says, shaking his head. “You said Slick disappeared from prison.”

 

“According to the news, yes,” you say. “I saw the report on my way home.”

 

“Weird,” he mutters. “Any ideas?”

 

“The police think it might’ve been an inside job,” you reply. “I haven’t been contacted about it, and I doubt that I will be, given our history. With no more information than that, I have no conclusive theories.”

 

There’s something heavy about the pause that follows, a moment where you pray that he can’t hear the weight of the truth you’re skirting around. Part of you wants him to notice, to ask about it.

 

“We’ll keep an eye on the story, then,” Dirk says, and squeezes you again. “I’m going back to sleep. Too early for this.”

 

You kiss his cheek, gather up your file, and go back into your room. You do crawl back into bed, but you don’t fall asleep. Your mind is going too fast for that. Instead, you wait for Karkat’s affirmative text back, which doesn’t come, even when it’s after eight and he should have texted back by now. Must be busy. You close your eyes and slow your breathing, thinking.

 

At nine-oh-three in the morning, you receive a blank text message. You highlight the letters

 

**Quite the exciting morning, is it not?**

 

You contemplate your response for a full minute.

 

_GG: That’s one word for it. Other words include “insane” and “troubling.”_

 

**Oh, Miss Crocker, how I’ve missed your witty banter.**

 

_GG: Where did you take him? Or is it against the rules to tell me?_

 

**You may ask. That is one answer I won’t give. However, I will give you a clue about something entirely different.**

 

He doesn’t text any further, and you’re assuming he’s waiting on your response. You wait in kind. He doesn’t get to control every aspect of the game. Not this time.

 

**I’m judging by your silence that you’re on pins and needles.**

 

You wait.

 

**That’s quite alright. Have your little huff. But the clue is coming regardless.**

 

After another moment, you receive a picture message. You open it, swear loudly enough to make Karkat Vantas proud, and hustle back into your sneakers at top speed.

 

==>

 

Dirk’s mouth is another tight line but you’re choosing to blame that on your reckless driving. It’s not a far walk between your apartment and Karkat’s hive (Gamzee’s—Karkat lives more in the pumpkin cottage with Jade now), but you don’t want to waste any time. There’s a painted black knight piece slashed through with red pulsing behind your eyelids every time you blink, and you barely throw the car in park before you yank the keys out and run for the door.

 

“Jane, nobody’s even home, what are you so scared of?” Dirk says as you bang on the door and rustle the knob. Panic is clouding your mind. But you know the room the picture was taken in. You’ve enjoyed many an evening in that room, laughing with your friend whom you are _sure_ is in dire trouble inside. After the lock does its duty, you swear again, taking a couple steps back.

 

“Jane—” Dirk begins, but he’s interrupted by the sound of splintering wood as you kick the door in, coupled with screeching tires on the street.

 

“CROCKER,” Gamzee roars from the street, loping across the lawn as fast as he can (which is quite fast; for someone so tall and lanky, he moves quickly). “Get outta the way.”

 

For once, you pay him heed, because in a crackle of ozone Jade suddenly appears on the lawn, her eyes curiously similar to Gamzee’s in that both are filled with wild terror.

 

“Does someone want to fill me in here?” Dirk asks loudly, following the three of you in your madcap rush inside the house, only to stop short as you pool into the trashed living room.

 

This isn’t the first time you’ve seen Karkat Vantas tied to a chair, not by a long shot. It is also far from the first time you’ve seen him bloodied up. But as you take in the horror of the scene at your feet, your stomach clenches hard enough to induce vomit, if you had anything substantial in your stomach.

 

Splashed across the walls and the floor, in swirling designs of circuses and cherubs you haven’t seen in years, is a bright red substance you first take for blood before noting the color and consistency are both wrong. On the TV speakers some kind of haunting clown refrain is playing very quietly, interspersed with honks and screams. Scattered around Karkat’s bound feet are pictures—pictures of every crime scene you yourself have visited with him, scenes of bloodshed and violence from when Gamzee was a mere puppet in the hands of cleverer masters. Gamzee makes a choked, strangled sound, and Karkat’s head shoots up. His pupils are pinpricks, his skin drenched in sweat, and you can see his breathing from here—short and fast, shallow, like a terrified rabbit.

 

Jade moans low in her throat and makes a move, but Gamzee holds out an enormous hand. “Not yet,” he murmurs, and somewhere in his chest, he makes a quiet purring sound, stepping carefully around the wreckage. Jade instead attaches herself to your arm, and you cling to each other as you watch Gamzee slowly move towards Karkat, the purring becoming more fulsome until it nearly resembles a “shoosh.”

 

“Best friend,” Gamzee says gently, sinking to his knees and half-crawling towards him. Karkat is twitching now, a high whine in his throat, and your heart constricts. “Come, now, brother, it’s just me. It’s just your pandead idiot diamond, bro, get your calm about you now.” He sits back on his heels right in front of the chair, among the pictures of his past, and hesitantly reaches out his hand.

 

Karkat jerks his head away, flinching from Gamzee’s touch, the whine instantly deepening into a growl.

 

“Don’t,” he spits, and there’s something wrong, his eyes are wrong and the scene is wrong, honks and screams and phantom laughter—

 

“Gamzee,” you whisper, “turn off the TV.”

 

If he hears you, he doesn’t acknowledge you, instead keening and reaching both hands towards Karkat’s face like a piteous worshipper. Karkat snarls, and in an instant bites down so hard on Gamzee’s hand you can see the purple blood flowing over the broken skin. You don’t hesitate then; you take out your gun and shoot the television. The noise cuts out in a violent splash of sparks, and while your ears are ringing you watch Gamzee’s tear-streaked face as if underwater.

 

“Best friend,” he seems to be mouthing, and you fancy you can hear his gravelly voice, “best friend, Karkat, sugar, please…don’t you know me, brother? Don’t you know your Gamzee?”

 

Karkat’s eyes remain fear-filled, but he takes his teeth out of Gamzee’s hand. Gamzee doesn’t seem to notice, gently papping the air around Karkat’s face, hovering over bruises and scratches and the alarming waterfall of blood cascading from a cut high on his forehead. Karkat’s predatory growl returns to the high whine, his breathing still too fast. “There now,” Gamzee says, as blood drips over his stiff fingers, “there now. Best friend, you got yourself a scare, now, bro, didn’t you? Something right off the wrong side of the ‘cupe. Ssshh, now, brother, hushaby, don’t you cry…”

 

Pale red tears fill Karkat’s eyes, and he squeezes them shut tight, shaking his head from side to side. The motion puts his cheeks in contact with Gamzee’s palms, and he flinches back from the contact, visibly biting down a yelp. Jade’s grip on your arm is crushing, and Dirk’s hands are visibly shaking. You want to look away, want to look at anything but Karkat and Gamzee and the whole ruinous mess, but like most ruinous messes, you can’t seem to.

 

“Karkat,” Gamzee says, and his voice is so soft, so tender. “Karkat, my diamond dust, my brother, what demons be lurking in that pan of yours what you can’t give to me? Karkat, what ailment can’t you share with your unlidded moron palemate?” Gently he puts his hands on Karkat’s face, and Karkat gives a low, shuddering groan, shoulders shaking as he slides further towards uncontrollable tears. “Won’t you let me bear this, bro? Won’t you give it to me so’s not to burden your wicked self? Bro, bro, Karkat, my diamond, my sweetheart—lay some sick knowledge on a brother, won’t you? Open up those miracle eyes and let me lay ocular on ‘em to know you?”

 

With a heaving breath, Karkat finally opens his eyes.

 

“Gamzee?” he says, small like a child, and promptly bursts into tears. Gamzee wraps himself around Karkat’s shuddering frame, and both seem to dissolve into a mess of purrs and sobbing and repetitive sweet nothings. Jade sways and sits heavily on the ground.

 

“Thank gog,” she whispers, and starts crying, herself. You absently pat her head as you finally get around to observing the room in more detail.

 

The wall where you know the knight piece was painted is blank now except for the distasteful décor Karkat’s attacker added to it. If you had to guess, it looks like theatrical blood, a little too thick and too bright to be Karkat’s blood. None of the wounds on him (except for the forehead, should really get that looked at) look like they could’ve provided the necessary fluid. You carefully walk around the floor, taking note of every detail you can—partial footprints in the fake blood too smeary to be of use, handprints the wrong size but admirably clean of fingerprinting, pictures that look like they came from the official case files, and artfully secreted behind the destroyed couch, a juggling pin, covered in the fake stuff so thoroughly you can’t tell if any of Karkat’s real blood is on it.

 

You make your way to the TV and eject the disk that was in the DVD player. It’s a blank CD, purple in color, though if you tilt it a ghostly “:o)” can be seen. You tuck the disk into a discarded sleeve and put it in your jacket pocket.

 

“Jane,” someone says, and you turn around to see Gamzee and Karkat both looking at you (everyone is looking at you, to be fair, but they’re in your immediate view). Gamzee’s usual distrustful glare seems to have been ramped up about eight notches; he looks positively murderous, his arms clamped around Karkat protectively (though he’s still tied up, should fix that as well). Karkat looks exhausted and battered now, but his eyes are normal now, and bright.

 

“Jane,” Karkat says again, “I—I don’t know how, but Slick…”

 

A rock settles in your gut. “I know,” you say grimly. Then out of the corner of your eye you see something—a flash of white. You whip around, but there’s nothing there. You frown and turn back, then see it in your periphery again. You slowly tilt your head.

 

**Pawn takes Knight. First Blood.**

 

Venom seethes in your gut. You turn back to Karkat and Gamzee.

 

“He will pay for this,” you hear yourself saying, in a voice far too hard to be one you recognize. You go through all the trouble to warn him, and now this. You miscalculated. “I swear on my life he will.”

 

You stalk towards the door, ignoring people calling your name, until Jade pops in front of you with a scowl. You push past her, fiddling with the car keys, mind already churning.

 

“ _Jane_!” Jade shrieks, right in your ear, and you look at her, not bothering to mask annoyance. She glares right back. “Jane, there’s—this is a crime scene, someone just tried to kill Karkat—”

 

“I’m aware,” you say coldly, and turn back around. “I’m on it.”

 

You drop the keys on the hood of Dirk’s car and are too deep in your own mind to notice that he never said a word to you.

 

==>

 

Miscalculation is understatement—stupid, _stupid_. You should have found some evidence to suggest Scratch wanted to work with Slick instead of kill him, you’re sure there was something—think forward, Jane, not backward, you tell yourself as you wander the streets all throughout the day. It’s blistering, and you’re soaked with sweat by the time you stop for a water bottle at a vending machine somewhere downtown.

 

Pawn takes knight—so obviously Scratch has enlisted Slick’s help. And then staged…what? What was the point of that? He didn’t even kill Karkat, and he was more than capable. Mental torture? But why?

 

First blood…what on earth did that mean? Clearly it meant he was the first casualty, but how can he be counted as a casualty if he isn’t even dead? You’re missing something, think, Crocker, _think_ …

 

The memory comes to you, clear as day—Karkat swinging those absurd sickles right at Caliborn’s ankles, streams of blood as he kicks Karkat into a wall. _First blood_. Of course. Karkat no more killed Lord English than Slick did Karkat, though there’s a missing piece…why disguise it as…? Oh, yes, punishment for Gamzee, as well. Gamzee is a non-entity at best, a wildcard at worst—and wasn’t he sent specifically to kill Karkat? Your mind shies away from imagining what it would have really looked like if Gamzee then got his hands on Karkat, because you’ve seen enough ripped-apart bodies for a lifetime to want to revisit the image further.

 

So by settling old scores, he’s being literal, you think, tossing the empty bottle into what you vaguely hope was a trash can or recycling bin, not important, you have to think…if escaping Calliope could be considered his first act of revenge, could it be possible that he’s working backwards? You wrack your brains trying to remember all the events that led up to that fateful day in the diner, trying to plot it out with exactness. Can’t think, too hot, mind won’t cooperate…

 

“Overexertion, dehydration, possibly mild heat exhaustion,” someone says, and your mechanically-moving legs finally stop. They wobble. Someone is in front of you now, hefting you onto their back…your face is momentarily pressed into gelled light hair that smells of citrus.

 

“Dirk?”

 

“Bingo,” he says, and starts walking. “I think you’ve had enough time in the sun.”

 

Numbness drips along your limbs, and you close your eyes to bury your face in the crook of his neck.

 

==>

 

You let your mind haze in and out of consciousness for a while and come violently awake when you’re set down and a cold spray of water hits you in the face. You shriek and flail, then comprehend—it’s just the shower, pounding cool and constant on your hot skin. You’re still completely clothed, but can’t bring yourself to care, so you ease back against the tub and let it happen. After a moment a glass of icewater bumps against your cheek, and you accept it as Dirk, also fully clothed, climbs in across from you.

 

You sip your water in the shower with your eyes closed, feeling the pounding headache and sore muscles slowly start to unwind as your body temperature falls back to normal. When the glass is empty you set it down outside of the tub, careless of your dripping arm, and take your glasses off for good measure. Dirk keeps his shades on, the smooth black surface pebbled in shower water, face impassive.

 

“How is he?” you croak, then grimace, reaching for an ice cube from your glass.

 

“He’ll live,” Dirk says. “Banged up, but nothing too serious. Jade and Gamzee are gonna stay with him until he has his head on straight again.”

 

You exhale slowly through your nose, crunching on the ice, then pull the DVD out of your jacket pocket, peeling the wet paper envelope off of it. You turn it over in your hands, then pass it to Dirk. He looks at it, then sets it on the toilet lid. You then turn over your gun, which he puts next to the DVD. You slide out of your sneakers next, which are set sopping on the bathroom rug, followed by your socks. You slide out of your jacket, which you ball up and throw carelessly out of the tub. You should probably have pulled the curtain closed at some point, water is getting everywhere, but if Dirk can’t be arsed to care about it right now, neither can you. You reach for his shades, and he grabs your wrist, shaking his head.

 

“No news on Slick,” he says, and reaches behind him to turn the water warmer. Soon puffs of steam start streaming from the tub, and you start to feel much less sticky and gross. “Roxy texted. Wants us to bring her a change of clothes to the hospital and check her mail for her.”

 

You nod. “We should get on that.”

 

He grunts. “Feel like moving?”

 

You shrug. Then you nod. Dirk turns off the shower and throws you a towel, then walks out of the bathroom, soaking wet and still shaded. You scrub your exhausted eyes and work on changing and drying off.

 

==>

 

“She gave me a copy of the keys after Callie first got put in the hospital,” Dirk explains as he drives you both towards Roxy and Jake’s apartment. You nod. “Since you didn’t ask.”

 

“I figured something along those lines,” you murmur, trying not to let the rumble of the car lull you into sleep. You are excessively tired. But sleep is not what’s needed right now. “How long has she been at the hospital?”

 

“Too long, in my opinion, but you know how she is with Callie,” Dirk shrugs. “I’ll grab the mail if you get her clothes.”

 

Puttering around her apartment, you wish you had time to straighten up for her, because there’s a mess everywhere you look, but it isn’t really your place to clean up after her (and besides, there’ll be time later). A quick inspection of her laundry situation turns up her last clean shirt and a skirt that’s a little rumpled, which you put down in a bag along with a clean set of underwear. You lock the door behind you and try not to trip down the stairs, at the bottom of which is Dirk, wielding a sizable stack of envelopes and catalogs.

 

“Probably hasn’t checked it in a week,” Dirk says, and you sigh.

 

“Hasn’t cleaned up in there for at least two,” you say, and together you get back into the car and start for the hospital, the bag and the mail in your lap. “We should do that for her this afternoon.”

 

“Tomorrow,” Dirk says, and you can see him side-eyeing you. “You’re taking a nap when we get done with this.”

 

“I’m fine,” you protest, but weakly. A nap sounds heavenly. You doze a little on the way to the hospital, then shake yourself awake when the car turns off. Mail and clothes in hand, you walk into the hospital and ask to see Calliope.

 

“Hey, Janey,” Roxy says as you both enter the room, hugging you both tightly. “Dirky. Thanks so much for this.”

 

“How is she?” you ask, looking over your friend. Her bandages are clean and she seems to be sleeping rather than unconscious, but you might just be optimistic.

 

“Her big wounds are healing alright. Internal organs are looking good. The docs think she’s put herself in a trance to help herself heal even faster,” Roxy says, taking the bag of clothes. “She moves a little bit now, at least, so she isn’t in a coma anymore. I’m gonna change.”

 

You both nod as she leaves the room, and you cross your arms and look Callie over more thoroughly. Her skin does seem less mottled than it did just a few days ago, the green in her cheeks a little brighter. Now and then her brow twitches, or her hand spasms. You breathe a sigh of relief and lean against Dirk, who puts his arm around you and squeezes.

 

Roxy comes back in with her fresh clothes after a few minutes, thanks you again, and holds out her hands for her mail. You hand over the stack, fully expecting to make your exit to leave her in peace now with her friend. Dirk, however, has a different plan; he sits down in one of the extra chairs as Roxy plops on the edge of the bed, sorting through the mail. You hover for a minute before making a beeline for a chair. Roxy’s sudden scream jolts through your system like electricity.

 

“Roxy?” Dirk asks, “What’s wrong?” You’re already moving towards her, because in her hands is a postcard, and the back is blank. Roxy’s hand is over her mouth and tears are already pouring down her face, and as you twist her hand a little to look at the postcard, your stomach heaves. Dirk joins you a second later and swears.

 

On the postcard is Jake, lying prone in a medical cot, swathed in bandages soaking through with blood in an eerily familiar manner. The worst damage seems to be on his arms and chest, but the photo is a little grainy so it’s hard to tell; it looks like there is an apparatus around his face, centering on his jaw. The clearest feature of the photo is the scribbly white X drawn over his mouth, impossible to miss. You gently pry the postcard out of Roxy’s hand and turn it over, scrutinizing the blank white surface. No indents to indicate writing, but you know him better than that; you tilt it a little and then turn your head under the pretext of checking on Roxy, and in your periphery the lettering becomes clear.

 

**Rook takes Pawn. Ought to teach him to keep his mouth shut.**

 

Bile rises in your throat again, stronger, but you push it down hard. Roxy is sobbing into Dirk’s chest, and Dirk himself looks shell-shocked, so you grab Roxy’s phone and call Jake. It rings for several minutes, and then goes dead. You try again and it goes straight to voicemail. You try with your phone, with the same result. You wrack your brains trying to remember what country he’s in, but the details slip from you like water, if you ever had them. Your mouth screws itself up tightly, and you hug Roxy without making meaningless platitudes. After a few moments Roxy’s phone lights up with a call.

 

“That’s an international number,” Roxy says shakily, and you take the phone from her, answering it.

 

“Is this Miss Roxy Lalonde?” a voice on the other end says, accented but understandable.

 

“Yes, it is,” you say, allowing a white lie since Roxy doesn’t look capable of articulate speech right now. “Who is this?”

 

“My name is Jhuann, from the Troll Buenos Aires General Hospital,” the voice says. “You are listed as the emergency contact for Mr. Jake English.”

 

“Is he alright?” you ask, and Dirk and Roxy both look at you, Dirk white-faced. You put the call on speakerphone.

 

“He is in stable condition,” Jhuann says, and Roxy shudders through a hiccup. “He was attacked by a large creature while on a jungle expedition. He has deep lacerations and his jaw was dislocated, but he is responding to treatment and will be in a suitable condition to return home in a few weeks.”

 

“Thank you for calling me,” you say as Roxy turns her face back into Dirk’s chest. “Will you please keep me updated with his condition?”

 

“Of course,” Jhuann says. “Have a good day, Miss Lalonde.”

 

You hang up and drop her phone back onto the bed, taking the postcard with you as you head for the door.

 

“Jane,” Roxy says, and you stop before your hand reaches the door, but don’t turn around. You hear them both get to their feet. “Jane, look at me.”

 

You do, analyzing her tear-streaked face and set jaw and stubborn glare. Next to her, Dirk is wearing his most inscrutable gaze, one not even you can penetrate.

 

“Where are you going?” Dirk asks, but Roxy talks over him.

 

“Be careful,” Roxy says, and crosses her arms tight over her chest. “I don’t want to be visiting you in the hospital next.”

 

You smile and put your hand on the doorknob. “I’ll be fine.” You look at Dirk. “I have work to do. You don’t have to come.”

 

His mouth tightens, then opens. Roxy shoves him towards you, which surprises him enough to look back at her. She smiles, watery.

 

“Go get ‘em,” she says. “And be careful.”

 

“We always are,” you say, and hear Dirk follow as you leave the room.

 

“Jane,” Dirk says as you nab his keys from his pocket, “what’s going on?”

 

You don’t respond until the car is well on the road. “A game.”

 

“A game?” Dirk repeats, then laughs, hollowly. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”

 

“I’m sure you did, to be honest,” you murmur, making a turn Dirk clearly didn’t expect, by the way his head is swiveling to look between the street signs and you. “That’s the thing about most of my enemies, Dirk. They love games.”

 

“Our enemies,” Dirk says. You glance at him, then nod.

 

“Our enemies,” you agree. “Do you trust me?”

 

“Of course,” Dirk says immediately, and you sigh.

 

“Do you trust that I will do the right thing?”

 

“According to your standards, yeah,” Dirk says. “Which have some holes in them, to be frank.”

 

“Oh?” You look at him in genuine surprise as you pull into a parking lot of an abandoned office building. He releases a harsh breath through his nose.

 

“Case and point,” Dirk clips. “Why are we here?”

 

“A hunch,” you say, and get out of the car to inspect the old Little & Little building. The antenna on top has been taken down since you last saw it, the grubby bricks and depressing landscape growing over a little. You try the door and find it locked, which doesn’t surprise you. You shimmy your lock-picking kit out of your back pocket and set to work. Dirk snorts, but covers you.

 

“You planned this,” he says.

 

“I like to come prepared,” you correct him, standing as the lock makes a satisfying _click_. “Come on.”

 

You let yourselves into the building and it’s eerily quiet. As you suspected—the power has been cut from this building entirely. Not so much as a hum of a single fluorescent light anywhere, at least not so far as you can tell. You only need one room, anyway.

 

“Did you ever think it odd,” you say as you pad down dark halls, headed for the basement, “that it was a Betty Crocker phone that Vinnia Weller used?”

 

“I mean, I guess,” Dirk says, using his phone’s flashlight feature to make the way a little smoother. “Given that they were banned after the Batterwitch business.”

 

“Bioware wires like that aren’t terribly difficult to plant in any old phone,” you say, shoving open the door to the stairs. “True, it may have been easiest to just give her a phone—or have her continue to use a phone—that already had the wire implanted, but to use such a blatantly obvious marker…true, it was a callout to me, since the Grand Highblood orchestrated the whole plan, but I’m not the only one who would have realized the kind of phone it was.”

 

“Okay,” Dirk says, “so the use of a Crocker Corp phone—a supposed-to-be-disabled phone—was a big ole clue into the kind of person we were dealing with. Specifically the wetware. I’m on board so far.”

 

“It’s not just the wetware,” you say as you come to the deadbolted door. Or, once-deadbolted door; it’s still a bit broken from your last visit. You heave it open. “It’s the _phone_. Getting his hands on the physical phone would have taken more trouble than it was worth, even for the game. I know, I’ve tried. They don’t even sell on the black market anymore. No one wants them.” You turn on your own phone flashlight and swallow bile again as memories of being trapped in by a horde of indigo-blooded murderous clowns surfaces. “Which means there had to be one on-hand. Perhaps in storage.”

 

“Are you saying Little & Little was a Crocker Corp company?” Dirk asks as you ignore the screens and the piping and start walking further into the dark. Your hunch is beginning to look more correct; it is a big basement, and you can see crates from here.

 

“Unofficially, perhaps,” you say. “Maybe more as a front company. She had several of those.”

 

“Then why would Ampora hire back his own employees?” Dirk asks as you jog towards the crates, stepping around spools of wire and other industrial materials that have no business in the basement of a supposed investment firm.

 

“Because he didn’t know they were his,” you say. “See if you can find a crowbar or a loose pipe.”

 

“No need,” Dirk says, and pulls a crate from the shadows. “This one’s open.”

 

Inside the crate is cardboard boxes. Inside the boxes are phones. Crocker Corp phones. You chew your lip, then start looking around. The basement goes on for farther still…you keep walking, Dirk loping to catch up. The smell of dust and old metal and wood starts to change as you walk towards what looks like a chain-link fence. There’s a large hole ripped into the center, and as you shine your light into the hole, you hear Dirk swear again.

 

In the chamber beyond the fence are two cryo tubes, long since abandoned, the ice turned to fluid from lack of power. On both are inscribed names.

 

“Bec Noir,” you read. “And Bec Blanche. The B and N in the files.”

 

“They were here,” Dirk says. “They were—they were _here_.”

 

“Little & Little was a front,” you say, “a front to cover up that they were a Crocker Corp storage facility.”

 

“And when the company was liquidated,” Dirk says slowly, “everything down here suffered from the power cut. The cryogenic chambers were disabled…”

 

“And the hounds broke free,” you say. Dirk runs his hands through his hair.

 

“What…what do we do?”

 

“Nothing we can do,” you say, and turn and start walking back. “The dogs are out. We don’t have the resources to put them back under, and they may have been out too long by now.”

 

“So these things are gonna keep going after people?” Dirk says.

 

“Well, Crockers, specifically,” you say. “Perhaps Sassacres would be a better term. All of us who are descendants from the human family Meenah tried to create. It would make sense why only Jake and I have been affected by it so far.” You push the image of Jake’s postcard picture away.

 

“And Karkat?” Dirk asks. “How does what happened to him factor into all of this?”

 

“All of this? It doesn’t,” you say, and it isn’t quite a lie. “What happened to him was…something else.”

 

“Something else,” Dirk echoes as you put the heavy door back in its place. “Like a game?”

 

You don’t answer. Dirk waits. He waits until you’re in the car, and until you pull into the apartment parking lot. He waits until you go up the stairs. He waits until you open the door. Then he puts his hand on your wrist.

 

“Since when did keeping things from me help us out any?” he asks, quietly. You open your mouth, then close it again. You want to tell him so badly. But Scratch is yours to deal with; it’s you he’s targeting. Your shoulders ache with all of the secrets you carry now. A voice, very quiet, asks you why you have to be so stubborn. But you’re sleepy and you don’t want to deal with the backlash of this latest secret right now.

 

“Do you trust me?” you whisper, and Dirk sighs, leaning his head against yours.

 

“I try to,” he says, and goes into his room. You sway for a minute before stumbling back to your room, falling into the kind of deep sleep only someone who’s been awake for about thirty-six hours can.

 

==>

 

You are awakened sometime the following morning (if eleven AM can be considered morning still) by a text alert. You grind your palms into your grainy eyes, yawn, and groggily reach for your phone. You haven’t slept that long and hard since the first few weeks after the Batterwitch case wrapped up, and your growling stomach is insisting on attention. You open the message and highlight the invisible words.

 

**Good day, Miss Crocker. I believe that’s been a long enough respite, don’t you?**

 

You bite the inside of your cheek and sit up, scrubbing away the last of sleepiness. You hear faint noises in the apartment, Dirk watching TV, most likely.

 

_You made two moves in one day. I think I need longer than sixteen-plus hours._

 

**I’ve waited far too many years for this, my dear. You’ll have to indulge my impatience.**

 

You consider sending him a series of swear words. It wouldn’t change anything but it might make you feel better.

 

**Consider the insults you’re contemplating duly noted, Detective. I must say, it’s been most entertaining to watch you try and pull your pieces from the board, but you see, the game isn’t over until I say it is. And they are part of the game, after all. You can’t protect them from it.**

**Now. Go get something to eat and pull yourself together. I want you fresh for this next move.**

_Why._

 

The reply never comes, and while you consider staying in your bed out of spite, the idea of facing whatever is in store for you unprepared leaves you with a pit in your stomach alongside your hunger. You instead grab a fresh change of clothes and leave your room. Dirk is indeed watching TV, sitting on the couch and eating a bowl of cereal. He nods at you, shades firmly in place, and you nod back before jumping in the shower. Anxiety and a precursor to adrenaline begin pulsing in your bloodstream two minutes under the spray; you don’t hold the record for longest ablutions in your apartment anyway, but you think you set a record for swiftness. Or perhaps you just lost some time while you were scrubbing your hair. Either way, you mechanically fix your hair, dress, and walk into the kitchen to appease your growling stomach, your hand idly tapping your phone in your pocket the whole time, waiting.

 

You settle on cereal, since abruptly the thought of anything more substantial makes you feel nauseous, and wolf it down in the kitchen. Dirk, long since finished with his cereal, turns off the television and walks into the kitchen to bring his bowl to the sink. You can tell by the quirk of his mouth that you’ve piqued his suspicion, but you are honestly too jittery to care. You consider, wildly and briefly, on banishing him to Roxy’s apartment. But you know that even the highly convenient voidy thing won’t keep him safe. Not from Scratch.

 

“Jane,” Dirk says, “what’s going on?”

 

You just shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak. Instead you start hand-washing the breakfast dishes, then drying and putting them away. When that’s done, you start straightening the spice rack. Dirk reaches for you, but then his phone dings, precisely at the same time as yours.

 

You frantically jimmy your phone out of your pocket as Dirk hustles to swipe his up from the coffee table, and physically feel the blood drain from your face.

 

**Check.**

 

“Oh my gog,” Dirk breathes. Then he reacts, grabbing his keys, shoving feet into sneakers. You scoop up a discarded pair of flip-flops and settle your glasses on your nose as he flings the door open. You don’t bother locking the apartment behind you, because Dirk’s breathing is hard and fast and you caught a glimpse of the picture sent to his phone as he shoved it in his back pocket.

 

Dirk’s hands are shaking so badly he clutches the steering wheel tighter than usual as he speeds through suburban Altville, his nostrils flaring with the force of his breath. You are too afraid to say anything to him, and the line of his mouth is so severe his lips have disappeared. You think he’s chewing on them.

 

Dirk barely stops the car before ripping the key out of the ignition and racing towards Dave and Terezi’s apartment building. He takes the stairs three at a time, and you run after him as best you can. The door of the apartment is locked, and Dirk swears, fumbling in his pockets for his keys again. His phone falls out of his pocket in the struggle, and while he works on fitting Dave’s spare key into the lock, you check his messages. The full scale of the picture he was sent dries your throat entirely.

 

It’s a crystal-clear picture of baby Django, sleeping soundly in his crib, fist shoved in his mouth. In the background is a painted black knight piece slashed with red, arranged like the warning about Karkat, but the dripping lettering is clear: **Pawn takes Knight. What a beautiful baby.**

 

The lock clicks, and Dirk silently opens the door. You follow him in a stealthy tiptoe across the apartment, littered with baby toys and laundry, and into the open door of the nursery. The crib is empty, the message still wet on the wall. That’s odd. You log it away for later, because Django is missing and you can’t work enough moisture into your mouth to even call his name.

 

“Dave,” Dirk says, and it hits you that you should’ve seen him before you saw anything else. “Dave, it’s me, li’l man, it’s Dirk. Where are you?”

 

He pads into the living room, the most open space of the apartment, and you follow, listening hard. “Dave,” Dirk calls again, and you hear a very thin “here” answer him. Dirk bolts for the master bedroom, and puts his shaking hand on the closet door.

 

“I’m gonna open this up, okay?” Dirk says, and when Dave doesn’t answer, he carefully and calmly opens it. Inside is Dave, folded into a painfully tight ball, with the baby clutched to his chest, still asleep. You breathe a heavy sigh of relief as Dirk drops to his knees.

 

“Bro?” Dave says, and Dirk’s hands flutter, unsure. “Is…is it…?”

 

You get back on your feet and get out your gun, doing a swift and thorough search of the rest of the apartment. When you’re satisfied no one is there, you return to the bedroom and nod. Dave shudders out a breath, then rocks a little, his mouth buckling and his hand protectively covering Django’s tiny head.

 

“Sent me a picture,” Dave says jerkily. “Of my own kid. Inside my own house. Didn’t hear anybody come in, didn’t hear anybody leave. Just that message over my son’s cradle.”

 

“I know, li’l man, I know,” Dirk says, gently. “I got the same one. Are you okay?”

 

“Freaked out just a little,” Dave says, and you suddenly hear hurried pounding up the stairs. You run for the front door and go for your gun again but Terezi’s face registers before you get it all the way out.

 

“Dave,” she says, and you point her towards the bedroom. You hear her voice and Dave’s voice, and then you don’t hear much of anything as it all registers. To stave off concern, you make your way towards the nursery and try to observe as much as you can before the panic attack truly begins. The most you get is that the message is written in the same fake blood that was at Karkat’s scene before your knees buckle and your lungs seize.

 

You stuff your arm into your mouth and bite down hard to avoid drawing any attention; they don’t need this from you, not while they’re still trying to make sure Django and Dave are alright. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to find a happy medium between keeping your mouth clamped and not breaking skin, trying to breathe evenly, trying to calm your heart. This is your fault. This happened because of you, because you’re too slow and too stupid to keep up with your enemy this time. He’s jabbing you everywhere you’re sensitive, and you’re just wondering what the next move will be. John’s head in a box? Actual harm to the baby rather than just a threat? Dirk’s throat crushed in a black hound’s jaws, its ruby eyes full of fury as it rips away the last breath Dirk had in his lungs? The hound finally turning on you, snarling, teeth lathered in blood and saliva, a growl deep in its chest—

 

You taste blood in your mouth and feel tears hot on your cheeks, but the sudden return to your body probably has more to do with the warm hands massaging your temples and hair, and a buzzing voice telling you…something. You try to pull your head out of your own mind and understand, but it’s like trying to comprehend a different language. You feel nimble fingers move down your face, to your cheek, and it seems like they’re trying to make your teeth unclench just with gentle pressure on the hinge of your jaw. You comply after you realize what you need to do, and the sharp sting blotting out part of your conscious thought lessens down to an ache. You dully think that you bit yourself pretty good and should get it bandaged, but you still can’t understand what this person…Dirk?...wants from you.

 

“Jane,” you hear, and again, “Jane.” Your name. That’s your name. You struggle to surface, to get out of where you’re drowning in your own thoughts. Your fingers twitch. Are you breathing? You’re not sure anymore. This is bad, you think hazily, the worst since before you got Kurloz’s harshwhimsies lodged in your brain. But those hands, those wonderful warm steady hands, never leave your body. They’re an anchor you try to return to, tangled as you are in the net of your mind.

 

 _Let go_ , a voice says that sounds a lot like Callie. _Don’t think. Just feel._

 

You remember her saying those words to you after she carried you away from the burning broadcasting tower, tweaked out of your gourd on chucklevoodoos and scared so badly you couldn’t even cry. How did you make it, then? Back when you thought the entire world had to be ripping apart at the seams?

 

 _Let go_ , the voice repeats, more firmly.

 

You clench everything, then consciously relax, starting with your hands. The bite of your nails in your thighs eases as you force your fingers to go limp. Then your wrists. Then elbows. Shoulders. Neck. Head resting back against the wall, then legs letting go of all tension. Spine. Breathing, slowly in and out. In and out.

 

In.

 

Out.

 

“Jane.”

 

“’m sorry,” you mumble, and feel Dirk’s hands envelop both of yours.

 

“It isn’t your fault,” he says quietly. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

 

Your bark of laughter surprises you, and you open your eyes. “You have no idea how much I have to be sorry for. This is the icing on the cake.”

 

Dirk frowns, and you pull your hands from his, steadying them on your knees. Another few breaths, and you push yourself to your feet. Another breath. Your bones stiffen back into place. You focus on the painted message.

 

“The knight piece is a stamp or stencil of some kind,” you say, noting the crisp edges, “but the slash and the lettering is all done by hand. No fingerprints, of course, that would be too convenient, but I suppose when you know your enemy it’s not really important.”

 

“Know our enemy?” Dirk asks, and his voice has the flat undertone you know well. You leave the nursery and see that Terezi and Dave are sitting on the couch, Django still in Dave’s arms. They both look at you as you come to a stop, Dirk looming over your shoulder.

 

“I’m sorry about this,” you say. “This is my fault.”

 

Terezi sniffs, hard. Then she stands, and you’re struck by how tall she is. Shorter than most of your friend group, yes, but still taller than you, and pointier. She sniffs you again, and glares blindly into your face.

 

“Bring him to his knees,” Terezi says, and points at the door. “Get out.”

 

You’ve long since given up trying to figure out how exactly she sniffs out secrets like that, but as Dirk’s thundercloud presence follows you out, you steady yourself for what you know is coming.

 

==>

 

“So,” Dirk says, once the door is safely shut and locked behind the both of you. “You know what’s going on.”

 

You take off your shoes and stand in the center of the open area of the living room, feet apart, weight distributed evenly. A battle stance. You clasp your hands together. “Yes,” you say.

 

Dirk, in contrast, begins his pacing. He paces, when you fight. Nervous energy. It helps him try not to yell. Doesn’t always work, but he tries. “You’ve known. For a while.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And you didn’t tell me.”

 

“No.”

 

“Did you…” Dirk scrubs his hand over his mouth, his brows drawing in, “did you tell anybody?”

 

“No.”

 

“So you carried this,” Dirk says, “this whatever it is…you kept it to yourself. This whole time.”

 

You just nod. Dirk’s hands fidget. They flex. He paces. You can feel the static in the air and know this isn’t going to be pretty. You shift your hips and try to plant yourself more solidly.

 

“You’ve been off since Callie was hospitalized,” Dirk says. “I thought it was just the dogs. It isn’t. The dogs, Karkat, Jake, Dave…this is all connected.” You nod again. “And you knew that. You know something. And you said…you said _nothing_.”

 

You wait. You wait for him to ask what you know, ask what you were thinking, to insinuate your selfishness, to reveal the cracks in his trust. To walk out, leave for a while, cool his head, then come back home ready to tackle the problem. Sweep the cracks and broken bits under the rug. It’s how this always works.

 

“How…” he says, then shakes his head, rubbing his mouth and his chin again. “Who…no, _why_. Why did you lie to me?”

 

“Why do I ever lie to you?” you return, and Dirk’s jaw clenches. His hands work like he wants something to throw, to break. You deliberately look away from them and try to stare into a middle distance. This is a dressing-down you’ve been through before. Maybe not at this level of intensity, but nothing you haven’t seen before. “I was trying to—”

 

“To protect me,” Dirk finishes, with venom. “To keep me in the dark until it all blows up in your face and you can’t keep it to yourself anymore. Because this works. Because that’s what _works_ now.”

 

You start chewing on the inside of your cheek again.

 

“It didn’t used to be like this,” Dirk says. “You used to talk to me. You used to _trust_ me.”

 

“I do trust you,” you say, automatically, and Dirk spins.

 

“No,” he spits, “you don’t. Not really. Not where it counts.”

 

You stop to consider that. Is it true? Do you…do you really not trust him? Is that why you kept this from him? Why you kept Cal Little’s plan from him? The signs do seem to point that way, you realize—and with horror, realize how little regard for him it seems to show in the process.

 

You stare at each other for a minute. Then Dirk starts his pacing.

 

“Who’s doing this,” he says. A demand.

 

“Doc Scratch,” you say, and at Dirk’s dead-stop surprise you quickly elaborate. “He poured his power into Caliborn’s body in order for him to reach his full cherubic size. When Calliope killed him, she kept Doc Scratch trapped in a corner of her mind. He escaped when she tried to fight Bec Noir and keep him contained at the same time.”

 

“Oh,” Dirk says, and then with considerably more weight, “oh.” He slumps against the couch. “Oh, gog, Jane, all of this…this is revenge, isn’t it? Payback for what happened to Lord English. That’s why…jegus.”

 

You just nod. Dirk presses his fingertips into his eyelids, beneath his shades.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks quietly. When you don’t answer, he lowers his hands and stands. “Why didn’t you tell me that one of our most dangerous enemies of all time came back from the dead with a revenge plot in mind?”

 

“I thought the less people who knew about it, the safer they’d be,” you say, talking swiftly as you can. “I thought it was about killing people I care about, but it’s not. It’s about settling the scores, whatever that means to him. He’s using Spades Slick as his new crony and possessing an old man’s body to get around. He can’t control it very well, but he has a corporeal form, for now.” You hesitate as he swears, quietly. “I…I thought I could protect all of you. John, Jake, Roxy, Dave, Karkat, Gamzee, you—I thought—”

 

“You thought wrong!” Dirk suddenly explodes, and you snap your mouth shut. “Karkat has a head contusion and a bad PTSD flare-up. Jake is in a hospital gog-knows-where. Dave—Dave is scared spitless because his _son_ was in the same room as a murderer, right under his own nose, and it could happen again at any second, he’s never going to relax. If you told us, if you let us in the loop, maybe we could have made up some kind of system, maybe we could’ve been prepared, but instead—”

 

“I know, I know, I royally screwed up on this,” you say, but Dirk talks right over you.

 

“—snuck up on us with our pants around our ankles and tripped us right into a muddy dark crevice of panic,” he continues, building volume. “It didn’t have to be this way, if your stupid _pride_ —”

 

“Pride?” you cut in, incredulous. “You think this was _pride_? I was _terrified_! I thought wrong on this, so wrong, but I thought if it was only me who knew, somehow it wouldn’t be as bad for everyone else. I don’t know why, I just—”

 

“For the love of—Jane, even if it wasn’t as bad for us, why in every hell there ever was would you do that to _yourself_?” Dirk shouts, and for the first time, you are genuinely afraid. “Yeah, it sucks for us, it is some royal grade-A cow pie straight from Grandma’s Farm, but Jane—why—why would you—” He stops, his cheeks reddening, his hands gesticulating while his mouth works. Then he squares his shoulders, turns, and heads for the door.

 

It’s always like this, you tell yourself as his footsteps stomp across the wood floor—you fight, he blows up, he leaves, he comes back, you carry on with the case. You are already screwing your eyes shut tight, ready for the second crying jag today, willing your wobbling legs to hold out a minute longer. He twists the doorknob, flings open the door. You wait for it to close.

 

You wait.

 

You wait.

 

The door does close. Gently. You can’t stop the first tears from sliding down your face, even as you hear his footsteps again, more quietly than before. Then his hands, the only things holding you together, cupping your face.

 

“Look at me,” he says, his voice soft. You do. For the first time in days, he has his shades off, his eyes full of so many emotions it’s hard to get a read on them, but the overarching expression seems to be…pity. He thumbs away a tear and you stare at him with wide eyes.

 

“I’m not leaving,” he says, clearly, deliberately. “I’m staying right here. I’m here. We’re going to fix this.”

 

You can’t…you don’t understand. This isn’t the script. This isn’t even what happened before you faked your death, before everything got broken and twisted and wrong—this is…

 

“Dirk?” you say, and you are surprised at how faint your voice is. He steps closer to you, his hands traveling down the sides of your neck, then back up. “What…”

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and you blink. “I’m sorry I keep leaving you. I’m sorry for every time I walked out that door angry at you. I’m so sorry.” His hands move to your shoulders. “Jane, I don’t want to leave you ever again. I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying.”

 

You are struck with the cheesiest of movie montages—every time Dirk left through that door that made an impact. The first case you worked, when he realized how dangerous your life was…moving out with Cronus…furious over how you handled Meenah’s public barbs…after the Weller case, when he asked when you would learn to trust each other…

 

That’s why, you realize, your heart swelling. That’s why you haven’t been telling him. Every time things get dangerous, you realize you’re waiting for him to leave again, because that’s what he’s done. He’s been there for you through it all, but when it counted most…when you needed him most… _Cronus flirting with the movers as they take Dirk’s things away, the final hug and promise that things wouldn’t change even though they already had…_

 

“You promise?” you find yourself saying, childlike, your hands clinging to his wrists. His eyes are so soft, so sincere, and he leans his forehead against yours.

 

“I promise,” he says. “That table was worth a fortune.”

 

You laugh in surprise, and he grins.

 

“I love you,” he says. “I’m not leaving you again. Never again.”

 

“I love you, too,” you say, and it isn’t automatic, it’s the truth. You rock up on your tiptoes to kiss him, long enough for him to feel how much you mean it. He pulls away first.

 

“But if I’m going to stay,” he says, and your gut swoops, “if we’re going to make this work, we need to talk about some things.”

 

“Things?” you ask. He takes your hand and walks towards the couch. Hesitates. Then walks towards your room, sitting down on your bed on the side he sleeps on. You sit across from him. He takes your hands again.

 

“Jane Crocker,” he says, “you need to learn to love yourself.”

 

You have to admit, it catches you by surprise. It’s…odd. You never actively think about how you feel about yourself. Outside of an anxiety attack, that is. Or a downward slump. You’re surprised, actually, at how ardently you can hate yourself sometimes. But what does this have to do with the fact that you lied?

 

“You don’t have to do everything alone,” he says, his thumbs stroking patterns across the backs of your hands. “You shouldn’t. You push your body to the limits, you don’t sleep, you leave at weird times of morning and don’t come back for hours and hours…you deliberately seek out the most dangerous cases.” He looks at you then, knowing, and you let his words sink into your skin. “I’m angry that you lied. I’m angry when you lie to me, because for starters, even when it’s for my own good, I hate it when you keep things from me, but also because somehow you’ve got it in your head that carrying these burdens alone spares me from suffering.”

 

You try to formulate a response, but can’t. Dirk continues after a moment.

 

“I don’t know how long it’s going to take for me to show you how important you are,” he says, “but I’m in this for the long haul. I told you before, and I’ll tell you every minute of every day if that’ll help—I’m not leaving. I’m not leaving because you are too good a person to do this to yourself. To…to always carry the heaviest loads, to not ask for help. Jane, you are so strong. Of course you can carry those loads.”

 

He catches your gaze, then. He stares deeply into your eyes, and you look back into his, and the world seems to hang on a golden thread, holding its breath.

 

“But you don’t have to,” he says. It’s not an earth-shattering revelation. He’s said this to you before. But somehow…somehow it punches the air from your lungs, this time. “Gog, Jane, you don’t have to.”

 

Your eyes well up. You can’t speak. He keeps going. Once he finds his stride he’s remarkably verbose, for such a tacit fellow.

 

“You’ve been on your own since your dad died, and you somehow took the blame for that on yourself, too,” he says. You resolve to stop trying to analyze every word he says and just listen, for now. “Every death that happens on your watch, you take on. Every mistake that got me hurt, or Karkat, or any of our other friends—somehow you convinced yourself that it’s your fault, and that just isn’t true, Jane. It isn’t.”

 

“But—”

 

“ _It isn’t your fault,_ ” Dirk says, softly, intensely. His hands hold yours uncomfortably tight, his eyes bright and earnest. Almost, you believe him. Almost. “Remember what I said after the murderclown case? About taking on murder investigations?”

 

“That we weren’t gonna,” you say shakily.

 

“Because?”

 

“Because…they’re too dangerous?”

 

“Yeah,” he nods, “but also because you use them as a double-whammy on yourself. You use it to feed that disturbing adrenaline junky living in your noggin.”

 

You smile.

 

“But you also use it as self-harm.”

 

That gives you legitimate pause. Your bite mark throbs at that moment, already scabbing over when you look at it. Then you think about the nail marks in your arms, in your legs, in your face. The walks in scalding heat. Skipping meals. Car chases across the interstate.

 

Are you really punishing yourself?

 

As soon as you think it, it clunks into place. Of course you are. You’ve been self-medicating with detective work since you were nineteen years old, throwing yourself into the thick of every dangerous knot of criminal activity you could find. Along the way you convinced yourself it was because of your intellect—that your natural talent as a detective made you best-qualified for the job. While that may be true in part, you now realize, through the perfection of hindsight, that that wasn’t all you were doing. Stab wound in your back. Burn mark on your leg. Nightmares that never go away. Cold press of gunmetal in your hands. A plan to fake your death, to remove yourself from the picture entirely. Walking into the Mirthful Church, knowing it might be the last thing you ever did, preparing to barter your life for Dirk’s if it came down to it.

 

“Oh,” you say, and Dirk huffs, a small smile cracking on his face.

 

“Finally, the world’s best detective gets it,” he says, and you smile sheepishly back. “I’m not expecting this to change overnight. But…I can’t watch you do this to yourself anymore. I love you too much to let you use yourself up. Y’know?”

 

You nod. You tighten your fingers around Dirk’s. “I know.” But that doesn’t feel like enough. You feel expectancy in the air. So you swallow several times, trying to find the words. They come slowly. “I…I want…to try. I don’t…I’ve been like this for as long as I…” You close your eyes, breathe. Organize yourself while Dirk’s thumbs travel across the backs of your hands.

 

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” you begin, and Dirk shakes his head.

 

“This isn’t about me,” he says quietly. “This is about you. You, hurting you. Not you hurting me.”

 

You are once again unable to say anything, so you raise Dirk’s hands to your mouth and gently kiss his knuckles. “I’ll try,” you whisper against his skin. “I…don’t want to be like this anymore. I’m so tired, Dirk.” The truth of that hits you between the eyes, and the exhaustion so deep in your bones it feels natural rears its head. Tears spring up again, clog in your throat. Dirk smiles, grips your hands together more securely.

 

“I know,” he says. “I’ll help. Whatever way I can, I’ll be there. Okay?”

 

You hiccup into a watery smile. “Okay.”

 

You sit in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Dirk says, “So. Tell me everything about our favorite cue ball douchepuppet. Don’t leave a thing out.”

 

And for once—for the first time in a long time—you don’t hold a single fact back.

 

==>

 

 It’s early morning, you are awake, and Dirk’s head is pillowed on your torso, softly snoring. You stroke his hair and stare blankly at the wall, thinking.

 

You talked about a lot, yesterday. If it were a different day, you would’ve called it a feelings jam. As Dirk laid out your behavior as he saw it, so many things became clear to you, many things you don’t know how to verbally express yet.

 

While your unconscious paranoia about Dirk abandoning you again was most certainly at work, you can also see Dirk’s over losing you. He left you for a quadrantmate, leaves for his mental health. It broke you. You, on the other hand, faked your death for two years. You _destroyed_ him. But here he is, trying to make it work. You have been reliably informed, through observation and hearsay, that he’s never worked this hard for a relationship in his life.

 

But he’s used to working alone for those, you think, casting your mind with distaste on all of his previous partners. Well, not all—Jake and Cronus certainly weren’t bad eggs—but Cal Little surfaces with particular repugnance and you actually scowl at the thought of being anything like him. Cal drew him in by being the pursuer, for once. But that’s not how it should work. It’s not how you and Dirk have ever worked. You always did things together, even when you first formed your moirallegiance. He said he was pale for you first, but it didn’t take you any time at all to reciprocate the sentiment. When you started falling in love with him, you know he was falling for you, too, he just didn’t know how to deal with it. And now this. Now this broken parody of what you used to be—keeping secrets, fighting, pushing each other away…

 

That’s why he leaves, you realize, and squeeze your sore eyes shut tight to fight off yet another wave of tears. You push him out the door. You, who want him so badly to stay every time he turns his back on you, are the catalyst to him leaving every time. And it’s not like you don’t leave him just as often, fake death aside. How many times has he woken up with you not in the apartment? How many times have you slipped away for solo investigating and not told him until afterwards? You rest your hand in his hair and sigh.

 

So how to show him that you aren’t going anywhere, either?

 

Perhaps time will only tell, so you put the finer workings of how to fix your relationship on the backburner. A particular phrase Scratch used in his text message from yesterday has struck you, lodged in your brain and niggling.

 

**It’s been most entertaining to watch you try to pull your pieces from the board.**

 

That’s true, you realize. You’ve been playing a largely defensive game—information-gathering, deflection, hiding. You have been doing your level best to try and win the game without actually taking any of your opponent’s pieces.

 

Alright, then, you think, resuming your stroking of Dirk’s hair as he mumbles in his sleep. Time to go on the offensive, Crocker. What can you do to make him stop? To make him _lose_?

 

The first thing you have to do is to realize that you misjudged him. Scratch isn’t a queen piece at all. He’s clearly the king—still making decisions, moving his two-piece army about, but not getting directly involved himself. It’s how he operates. You simply took his favorite piece away. Now he’s returning the favor. And it’s been remarkably effective; psychological warfare, rather than real bloodshed.

 

Calliope, in the hospital. Karkat, on the mend and hopefully visiting a therapist. Jake, healing up in a foreign country. Dave, not letting his baby out of his sight for quite some time. It pains you to think like this, but you need to—what pieces do you have left?

 

John, obviously. Roxy.

 

Bec Blanche, maybe?

 

You consider the idea, then decide that if Scratch gets to claim Bec Noir, then Bec Blanche, as his enemy, is probably safely on your side. Or on Jade and Jake’s side, anyway. You think the only reason Jake isn’t dead might be because of Bec Blanche, even if she was a little too late to stop him from being attacked at all. You can control her about as well as Scratch can control the other, so call it even.

 

And Dirk. The most valuable piece of all. You can’t protect him by boxing him in. As similar to a real chess match as Scratch intends on making this, you can’t completely sink into the fantasy. These aren’t just lifeless pawns to move around the board. They’re people who breathe, whom you love. Some more than others, but the love is still there, even for Gamzee.

 

You are jostled from your train of thought as Dirk shifts, shoving his head farther up your chest, wrapping you more tightly in his arms. You let him settle, then rest your head against his, breathing in his slightly-citrus scent.

 

You need to talk to Karkat. He can fill in some missing blanks for you, assuming he remembers his attack. And you need to check in on him. Apologize to Jade. The whole shebang.

 

But it can wait another hour or so.

 

==>

 

At a more reasonable hour, when Dirk is awake and you’re both in the kitchen eating cereal, you propose your plan for the day.

 

“I want to go see Karkat,” you announce, and Dirk nods, fishing for more marshmallows in his bowl.

 

“Figured you would,” he grunts. “He’s at the pumpkin cottage now. Injuries were minor, all things considered. Most of the damage seems to have been psychological.”

 

You nod, finish off your breakfast, and put the bowl in the sink. “I’m gonna change and then head over. Coming?”

 

“Like you have to ask?” Dirk huffs, and you swat his hair as you pass by. On your vanity sits the broken leash and the strand of pearls, and you hesitate for a long moment before grabbing the leash and shoving it in your jacket pocket. It’s too hot for a jacket, this time of year, but it’s easier to sweat than to walk around with an unconcealed firearm, and the pockets are big enough to be convenient. You have no idea why you’re taking it with you. A hunch, probably.

 

The drive to the cottage is much more pleasant than previous car rides between the two of you have been, even if Dirk’s car is still a wayward pebble away from a shattered windshield. You decline to comment on it, however, given that you know he’ll get it replaced as soon as he gives Jade his specifications for the new model. And he’s the one who drives more than you do, anyway. But you’re getting sidetracked. Should you text ahead to say you’re coming? Probably. Do you? Nah. Surprise visits are more your style anyway, when you’re on a case. Usually jars more of the truth loose. Not that you think Karkat would lie, but you’re unsure of his condition and the more of the incident he remembers, he’ll tell you.

 

There’s always the chance that seeing you will send him into hysterics, but given that hysteria has marked your relationship for nearly ten years, another fright now could hardly harm him more than he already has been.

 

You give the cottage door a firm rapping and then wait. Jade opens the door, and her expression cools when she sees you. “Jane.”

 

“I’m sorry,” you say, and Jade blinks. “I’ve had…a lot on my mind. I’ll explain everything as soon as I can but I need some answers. Can I see him?”

 

She looks at Dirk, who half-smiles and nods, and then looks at you. “If he wants to see you, then yeah. Come on in.”

 

You perch on the couch and wait, feeling the déjà vu setting in. You hear a gravelly voice saying something in the back room, followed up by a louder, though still subdued, growly voice. After a moment Jade comes out ahead of Karkat, who has Gamzee draped across his shoulders like a particularly cumbersome cape. He rolls his eyes at you, which is customary, and sets about bullying Gamzee into a comfortable position on the armchair before settling into him.

 

“Karkat,” you say in greeting once Jade perches on the arm of the chair. “You’re looking much better.”

 

“A shower and some stitches will do that,” he snips, and cracks a grin. “You’re not looking so bad yourself. Have your pen ready?”

 

“And waiting,” you say, folding your hands and smiling. “Tell me everything.”

 

“Everything,” Karkat grunts, and Gamzee’s arms tighten around him. Karkat reaches over his head to pat Gamzee between the horns, which seems to calm both of them. “For starters, you owe Gamzee a new TV.”

 

“I reckon we can get to what all’s bein’ owed later, best friend,” Gamzee murmurs, glaring daggers at you despite his mild tone. You are far too used to his antics to let that bother you.

 

“Anyway,” Karkat says loudly, “I was heading to the old hive to make sure Gamzee got up and out to work on time. But when I got there, Tavros was already gone and Gamzee’s dump of a truck wasn’t there, so I was about to go on into work until I noticed the door was open a bit. Got out to double-check that they weren’t being robbed, and that’s when Slick jumped me.” He bares his teeth. “That’s the second time that son of a bowlegged bulge-sucking whore-grub has beat me up in my own home, and I don’t like it, Crocker. You owe me a few stamps on my clocked-in-the-head punch card.”

 

“Did he say anything to you?” you ask, ignoring the unhappy look on Gamzee’s face as he buries it into Karkat’s hair.

 

“Something moronic about how it wasn’t personal, was just business,” Karkat snorts. “Anyway. He got me good enough in the head with a juggling pin that I blacked out for a bit, and when I woke up, I watched him trash the living room—entertainment block—whatever, man, the room with the TV, you know which one. I was yelling at him the entire time, then he put some noise-cancelling headphones on over his stupid round head and…and put the disc on.” He visibly shudders, and doesn’t protest when Gamzee wraps more fully around him. Jade leans on both of them, looking sad. Karkat grasps her hand.

 

“Thought it was just some stupid clownish sound bites,” Karkat continues, his eyes getting a little faraway. “Started…started whispering things. Things I haven’t heard…not since…and the pictures,” he glares, almost snarling, “the _pictures_ of those poor people…just…the combination…I couldn’t shake it…I…”

 

“Weren’t a good thing,” Gamzee growls. “Weren’t good at all.” As if to make a point he flexes his bandaged hand from where it’s laid on Karkat’s chest. “Whatever unholy and unfunny spells be cast over that CD to put my Karbro at ills, to make what I hold dearest above all think I could ever give harm at all to his nug…ain’t no proper thing. Ain’t no proper thing.”

 

The CD…you frown, then look at Dirk. “Do we still have that?”

 

“Somewhere in my room,” Dirk shrugs. “I wasn’t too concerned about it at the time.”

 

“We’ll need to do a scan of it,” you say, then return to Karkat. “Anything else you can think of to tell me?”

 

“Well…my head was kind of starting to twitch out, but I think he painted something on the wall,” Karkat shrugged. “Looked like a chess piece or something. Wasn’t there when I came to, so I guess I—”

 

“You didn’t imagine it,” you say, and pull out your phone. “First,” you say, flipping through your recent messages, “I want to apologize to you. It’s my fault you got dragged into this. Well, not entirely, but a good chunk of the problem is me, you see.”

 

“When is it ever not,” Karkat grumps. “My only question is, what does Slick have to gain by making me relive that particular mess? Wasn’t his doing the first time, as I recall.”

 

“It wasn’t,” you say, and pull up the picture of the first warning, the knight piece slashed with red on Gamzee’s wall. You show it to him, and his brow furrows. So does Gamzee’s and Jade’s.

 

“I thought I felt some kind of…residue,” Jade says, “but I couldn’t put my finger on it.”

 

“Is it anything like following Callie’s teleporting trails?” you ask, and Jade’s face lights up.

 

“That’s exactly it!” she exclaims. “It’s—but, hang on, this isn’t Callie—”

 

“It isn’t,” you shake your head. “It’s someone far worse.”

 

“Are you ever going to tell us, or is your sole purpose in this visit to dangle the truth like a grub on a hook in front of our gaping fish mouths only to yank it away at the last second and be on your merry way?” Karkat snaps.

 

“I’m getting to that,” you say, and put your phone down. “Look, I know exactly how this sounds, but given that someone in this very room knows how to teleport and change molecular structures and another one of us can make people afraid with his mind, don’t dismiss what I’m about to say as impossible. We all know the fabric of impossibility.”

 

At Karkat and Gamzee’s twin impatient growls you almost smile.

 

“When Caliborn underwent his incubation process within Doc Scratch’s body,” you say, and Gamzee stiffens visibly, “it was a physical representation of a metaphysical process. What Doc Scratch was doing via proximity was imbuing Caliborn’s stunted cherub body with his energy—magic, powers, call it whatever you like—so that it would grow to its full adult size. When Lord English emerged from Doc Scratch’s puppet body, the being that comprises Scratch’s self hitched a ride along with his new creation.

 

“When Calliope won her body back form Caliborn, Doc Scratch became a prisoner inside a body he could no longer control, if he ever could,” you continue, noting with pride the dropped jaws in front of you. “So all this time, Callie has been keeping Scratch inside her own mind and body. But when she went to face Bec Noir—the black teleporting hound,” you clarify at Jade’s startled expression, “she was unable to fight both the ghost in her head and the dog. Bec Noir injured her, and Doc Scratch escaped.”

 

“So,” Karkat sputters, “so—what you’re saying is—”

 

“Doc Scratch is back, and exacting revenge on everyone involved in Lord English’s downfall,” you nod. “And he broke Slick out of jail to be his accomplice. As for Bec Noir, we can assume Bec Blanche—a white dog, long fur, I think you’re familiar with her, Jade—is taking care of him. My focus now is to stop Doc Scratch before he ‘wins’ the game.”

 

“All Bec business aside—and we’re definitely talking about that later, Jane Crocker,” Jade glares, “what do we need to do?”

 

You smile. “I’m so glad you asked, Jade.”

 

==>

 

“Think it’ll work?” Dirk asks as he drives you back to the apartment. It’s much later in the day; discussing the exact workings of the Becs took up even more time than revealing the scope of the iron in your fire that is Scratch.

 

“We can only ever hope,” you say. “How’re Dave and Terezi?”

 

“Moving,” Dirk says, “and getting a top-of-the-line security system installed in the new house. Jade hooked them up.”

 

“It’ll be nice for them to have some more space,” you say, and pull out your phone. “Head for the hospital. We need to collect Roxy.”

 

Dirk complies as you dial your brother’s number. John picks up on the fourth ring. “Hey, sis, I heard things were getting crazy down—”

 

“Doc Scratch is back,” you say, “and I need you.”

 

There’s dead silence on the other end of the line for several minutes.

 

“Give me an hour to pack,” John says, and hangs up. You smile and put your phone away. Despite everything he’s been through, everything you’ve said to each other, when push comes to shove, the part of him that’s still a lost sixteen-year-old orphan looking up to his nineteen-year-old sister will always be something you can count on to have your back. This life was never something he wanted for long, you know that. You used to wonder if it was because he didn’t love your dad as much as you did, and then the horror of what you just thought would register and you’d push it away. You dealt with your grief in different ways. John had his friends. You only had the work.

 

Not anymore, you think. Now you have Dirk. You have Roxy and Jake, and Jade and Karkat, and a whole host of friends you didn’t think you’d ever have. You have people who help when you need some moving done. You have friends who come over for barbeques and holidays. You have what John had all those years ago.

 

Which begs the question: do you need the work anymore?

 

Irrelevant, at this stage in the game, you think as the hospital comes into view. For now, the work has you. But after…after, you’ll have to see.

 

The receptionist looks up as you and Dirk enter the hospital, and stands. “If you’re looking for Miss Calliope, she signed herself out several hours ago.”

 

You blink. “She did? I didn’t know she was awake.”

 

“It was sudden,” the receptionist says, and nods her head towards the waiting area. “Your friend is still here. She can give you more details.”

 

You thank her and turn to see Roxy, sitting in a chair with her elbows on her knees, a blank look on her face. You look at Dirk, who shrugs, and together you walk towards her.

 

“Roxy?” you say, and Roxy’s head swings up. She cracks a weak smile.

 

“Heyo,” she says. “So guess who lost a cherub while she was napping?”

 

“You didn’t lose her,” Dirk says as you settle into chairs beside her. “Callie’s a full-grown cherub who goes where she wants, when she wants. I’m just surprised she’s awake.”

 

“Yeah,” Roxy says, smiling thinly, “me, too.”

 

“What did the doctors say?” you ask. Roxy shrugs one shoulder, leaning back in her seat.

 

“They wanted to keep her, but apparently Callie was up and moving and wouldn’t listen to anybody.” She laughs, hollow. “Walked right past me and didn’t say a word.”

 

You bite your lip, then sigh. “Roxy, we need you for something. Something big.”

 

Roxy’s head lifts off her fist, a spark of interest in her eyes. “Yeah? What’s up?”

 

You look at Dirk. He nods. You take a deep breath and start talking.

 

==>

 

“I’m done,” Dirk says coldly, hefting his bag on his shoulder. “This…all of this is too much. I’m done. I’m out.”

 

“Dirk,” you say, forcing more tears into your voice, “please, can’t we—let’s just work this—”

 

“Forget it,” Dirk says, and throws the door open. “Have fun getting killed on your own time, Jane. I don’t want any part of it.”

 

He gives you a questioning look, and you nod but don’t smile. He holds your eyes for almost a moment too long, then as you repeat his name, he slams the door. You release a breath. The first part of your move is in motion; any minute now you expect the story of the famous Detective Crocker being publically banned from the police department to be hitting the news. Your phone dings.

 

_TT: I love you._

 

You smile and send reciprocation, then start drafting another message.

 

_GG: All senses of déjà vu aside, are you almost ready?_

_UU: Nearly. Roxy needs another few moments with her gun collection, then we’ll be ready to move whenever._

_GG: Good. Jade gave Dirk the original tracking apparatus, but do you still have the secondary?_

_UU: Of course. Never gave it back. :) I think Jade will forgive me in this instance for failing to return her equipment._

_GG: :B Naughty! Well, now it’s time to play the waiting game._

_GG: And thank you, for helping me with this._

_UU: Of course, darling._

Your phone lights up with the news story Karkat leaked, and you read it in satisfaction. It certainly seems legitimate. Fabricating your downfall twice in a lifetime seems like it should be overkill, but then again, your foes rarely let you get away with small gestures. Besides…maybe, once this is all over…it might not be a bad idea to take a break. Let the ban stand. You know it would make Dirk happy. But would it do the same for you?

 

You put your phone down and walk into the kitchen, getting down your dad’s rum bottle. You know the original liquid he used to keep in it is long gone; you took care of that, over the course of several years. But you have kept it full with his favorite brand, pretty penny though it costs. You inhale the scent, then pour yourself a small amount in a glass. The burn wakes you up, the smooth oaky undertones familiar and soothing. For good measure you pour another glass, then stopper the bottle and return it to its cabinet. The second sip taken care of, you put your glass in the sink and retreat into the living room to keep an eye on the news, toying with the leash as you do so. You don’t expect your banishment to make it to the local news channels; you aren’t that exciting anymore. Or at least you shouldn’t be, but the public is a fickle friend. You absently work the smooth leather in your hands as you keep an ear out for public maulings or mysterious murders.

 

The news segment finishes up and leads into a game show, and you turn off your television. There isn’t much to figure out, at this point in the game. You really only have to wait and see what fruits your labors produce. With luck, Scratch’s limited omniscience picked up exactly the cues you laid for him—Dirk storming out of the apartment and living with his brother, Detective Vantas publically denouncing you, all other friends keeping their distance. John is with you, of course, but he’s your brother and he was with you the first time you faced Doc Scratch and his merry band of murderers.

 

You give John the go-ahead that it’s safe to return to the apartment, and when he comes back inside, he flashes you a cheerful smile.

 

“So what’s on this CD?” John asks, holding up the chucklevoodoo disk from Gamzee’s hive.

 

“Music, I think,” you say, holding out your hand. “But let’s pop it in to make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

 

“Do it in mine,” John says as you reach for your laptop. “I’ve got some software installed that might make deconstructing it easier.”

 

You do as he says, shifting your reach for his absurdly bright lime-green laptop, and put the disk in the drive. It’s your imagination, but you still wipe your fingers off on your shirt to get rid of the oily feeling touching the disk leaves on your subconscious. John takes the laptop off the coffee table and onto his lap, and you crowd in his space as he opens the disk in his file explorer.

 

“Okay,” John says, “looks like there’s one folder on here. Let’s unzip it and see what pops out.”

 

“What on earth is ~ATH?” you ask, and John snorts.

 

“Old troll programming,” he says. “Come on, sis, I’d think even _you_ would know that.”

 

“Must have slipped my mind,” you reply primly. “How could a zipped file play music?”

 

“How could a CD produce chucklevoodoos?” John shrugs. “Beats me. Let’s keep looking around.”

 

Once he decompresses the folder and its contents are open for view, you notice with intrigue the second folder that pops up a few moments after the other files, also zipped. John hovers over it, then starts inspecting the other files. There are two, an MP3 labelled “:o)” and a foreign file type (.die? What?) that John inspects the properties of. His screen begins loading a flashing “Do:” logo before he hurriedly closes the window and reboots his computer, taking the disk out of the drive.

 

“Hold on, I want to make sure that didn’t leave anything gross on my hard drive,” John says, throwing the disk back down on the coffee table. You pick it up despite the heaving in your gut, turning it over and over in your hands. It feels slightly warm, which you expect from being in the drive, but something about it just reminds you of the wetware wires. Abruptly you imagine you hear disembodied cackling in your ear, and you have to stop yourself from snapping the disk in your hands immediately. You still have more to discover on this thing.

 

“Alright,” John says, taking the disk back, “let’s see what that last file was.”

 

This last folder’s contents take much longer to extract. You get up to fix yourself and John some tea and come back to find it still forty percent away from completion. John accepts the mug you hand him and goes back to his solitaire game. You notice he’s chosen the spider theme for his cards and grin.

 

“Wedded bliss continues, then?”

 

“Huh?” John asks blankly, then catches your nod and laughs. “Oh. Yeah, it’s pretty great. We’re, uh. We’re talking about kids.” At your surprised “oh?” he laughs nervously again. “Yeah. I mean, nothing set in stone yet, of course. Weighing the options of adopting a troll or a human.”

 

“What about surrogacy?” you ask. “It worked well for Dave and Terezi.”

 

“Nah,” John shrugs. “I know it’s stupid, but if half my DNA is gonna make up a person, I want the other person’s DNA to be Vriska’s. And, well, since it’s physically impossible…” He chuckles and scratches his neck. “That’s pretty dumb, though.”

 

“Not dumb,” you disagree, and then John’s computer dings. “Oh, hello, looks like it’s ready.”

 

“Let’s dig in,” John grins, and pulls up the explorer. Inside the newly-unzipped folder is one file, a .txt simply titled KID.

 

“Odd,” you say, furrowing your brow. “John?”

 

“Yeah,” he says, and double-clicks. The file opens, and you see it’s simply an address. Well, not simply; it’s the ruins of the old Felt mansion.

 

“Delete the folder,” you say, and John does. When he takes the disk out of the drive, you follow your intuition and snap it in several pieces. Then you throw the pieces in the disposal, and then fish out what’s left to throw in the garbage. John watches with a mildly fascinated look on his face, and follows you as you grab your keys. It’s dark outside, perfect cover for investigating on foot, but given that the mansion ruins are somewhat in the backwoods, you let John drive instead, propping your feet up on the dashboard and resting your chin on your knees to think.

 

“Creepy,” John says as he pulls into the Felt driveway. The mansion was once impeccably kept and while you will always question the nearly solid-green décor, for a tacky leprechaun dwelling it was tasteful. Now, it’s green for an entirely different reason, overgrown with weeds and ivy. Given that it’s been nearly five years since anyone did any maintenance, you’re not surprised to also see that the roof has been caving in, windows are smashed, and graffiti covers the place. You stare at the mansion, then square your shoulders, get out of John’s car, and march in. You’re fairly sure that Scratch would never stay in the place, for a multitude of reasons including the mess it’s in and keeping a low profile, so you are certain of not running into him, but there’s no telling what else could be in there. You make sure John is following, then slip through the large hole knocked into the boarded-up front doors. John has slightly more trouble getting his shoulders through, but he follows closely as you pull up the flashlight function on your phone and begin investigating.

 

The interior is not quite as dilapidated as the exterior, but only just; it’s on its way to being a fine example of dereliction, with sagging floor joists and dust and the smell of mildew everywhere. You haven’t the faintest what you’re looking for, or why, but you do have the niggling beginnings of a hunch.

 

“Why would Slick leave us a message to come here?” John says, and you look at him for a moment, gawking.

 

“Slick?”

 

“Well, yeah,” he says, “seems kinda obvious, doesn’t it? Who else would call you “kid” and have access to Scratch’s CD?”

 

“Huh,” you say, smiling and returning to your search. “It’s a shame you don’t run around with me anymore, John, you’re very perceptive.”

 

“If I was more perceptive, I would’ve suggested not coming on the grounds that this seems like a trap,” John says as you head for the stairs, going to higher floors where the Felt goons slept. “But I’m guessing that the thought crossed your mind before we even left, and if there’s one thing living with you has taught me, it’s that you’ll do what you gotta do regardless of sense or risk to life and limb. So might as well come along to keep an eye on you, right?”

 

You sigh and keep walking. If Slick left the message, then it seems like a logical leap to think that whatever he wants you to see, it would be in Snowman’s quarters. Out of all the Felt members, current affiliations excluded, Slick dealt most often with Snowman, given their strange courtship. You touch the 8-ball knob of her room, take a deep breath, look over your shoulder to make sure John is sticking close, and open the door.

 

There are footprints all over the thickly-dusted carpet, narrow carapacian footprints, and on the neatly-made bed that has the look of rats and moths chewing on the faded black bedspread, a moldering wooden box. On top of the box is a key taped to a hastily-folded scrap of computer paper. You creep as silently as you can towards it as the floorboards creak nastily, and pick up the paper, unfolding it.

 

_KID—HOPING YOU GOT MY NOTE. DON’T GOT THE WAY OF MOVING ALL SILENT LIKE AROUND THE BIG DUMB CUEBALL’S VISION BUT THIS SHOULD BE OPERATING IN ENOUGH OF HIS BLIND SPOTS. GOT SOMETHING INSIDE THAT SHOULD HELP EVEN YOUR ODDS. SN0W TOLD ME BOUT IT ONCE BUT THAT’S A DIFFERENT STORY. BE SMART. USE IT WISELY. DON’T SHOOT YOUR FACE OFF._

 

You frown, then take the key and stick it in the rusty lock. It turns with a little persuasion, and inside, wrapped in an oiled rag, you see a glint of silver. You reach inside, and pull out an ivory-plated pistol with a silver handle. The ivory has aged, but you recall when this thing was bone-white and perfectly maintained. It used to sit in a holster at the hip of one round-headed mob lieutenant. You inspect it, then check to see how many bullets are left. One, as it turns out, green-tinted metal casing catching the light of John’s phone and yours.

 

“Footprints lead to and from the window,” John says. “Is that…?”

 

“Doc Scratch’s gun, unless I miss my guess,” you say, and make sure the safety is on before you tuck it into your pocket. “Let’s get out of here.”

 

The trip from the mansion to the car, and then car back to apartment, is silent. You turn the gun over in your hands, thinking. You inspect the final round, see nothing overly special about it besides its color, and return it to the revolver. Slick risked an awful lot to get that message to you, and make sure you got this weapon. Why? Why would he do that? Why would he betray Scratch?

 

Irrelevant. He has. You now have Scratch’s gun, which legends in the seedy underground have said has special powers. What powers, you don’t know, but you’ll do a little more digging before using it. Whatever Slick’s angle (or perhaps Scratch’s, using Slick, which is a possibility), you’ll do whatever it takes to twist it in your favor.

 

Back at the apartment, you tell John goodnight and retreat into your room, laying the gun alongside Nanna’s pearls and the chewed dog leash on your vanity. You drift off to uneasy sleep studying them in the dark.

 

==>

 

A solid two hours of research and reaching out to old contacts has only told you that Scratch’s gun supposedly was used to kill Snowman, though how Slick got it in the first place is unknown (reigning theory is that Scratch gave it to him, obviously, but why?). Given that Snowman was an accomplished teleporter and quite often used her powers to divert attacks, that makes you think that the green bullet within may have some special property against teleporting beings. Which could be incredibly useful, in your hands.

 

Twice now you’ve smelled ozone and heard growling outside of the apartment, only to vanish the moment you go to look. John said once that he saw a flash of black out of his periphery followed immediately by white, and it spooked him. You simply sipped your tea and nodded. As you expected, Bec Noir must be getting desperate to get his teeth in Sassacre flesh again. Bec Blanche is doing her job beautifully, though you will admit that the increase in teleporting dogs isn’t doing much for your nerves. Four days pass in this manner, every day with agitation rising to your surface. Why hasn’t Scratch responded yet?

 

On the fifth day, John shuts his laptop, rubs his eyes, and yawns loudly. “Come on,” he says, scooping up your jacket from its place on Dirk’s armchair and holding it out to where you’re sitting at the dining room table. You look up from absently tracing patterns in the glossy wood and blink. He shakes your jacket at you. “Grab the guns and come on. We’re both going insane cooped up here.”

 

You bite your lip, then nod, accepting your jacket and going back into your room to strap on your gun. You had a second holster lying around and slip it on the other side of your shoulder straps, in which you tuck Scratch’s pistol. You grab the red leash again and stuff it in your pocket as you slip the jacket on, and meet John at the door, keys in hand. Together you walk out of the apartment, down the steps, and into the downtown area.

 

It’s dusk, the summer sky painted precisely the color of Dirk’s eyes in the west and lightening to your own blue in the east (deepening to night in the farthest edges, of course), and the sight soothes you. Since the fake fight a few days ago you’ve had zero contact, which you both deemed necessary, but you’re chafing from the absence. As you walk aimlessly through the streets, you notice a couple beneath a streetlight, hand-in-hand and laughing. As you watch, the shorter of the two gets on their knees and produces a velvet box, which sets the other to immediately sobbing and smiling. The proposal continues as proposals do, and as the couple kiss, several standers-by applaud. You glance at John, who is beaming at the spectacle.

 

“Cute,” he says, and you nod absently along. “I mean, can’t beat my proposal to Vriska, but that was cute.”

 

“Yes, John, if romance was a competition, we all know you and Vriska would win,” you snort, and John laughs. You shove your hands in your pockets. “How did you know, by the way? That it was time to propose, I mean. You’d been together…what, five years?”

 

“Six,” John corrects. “Was gonna wait for eight, just to make it even more up her alley, but you can’t run everything on a crazy troll’s schedule, y’know.” At your flat look he laughs. “I dunno, it just felt right. It seemed the time, so I did.”

 

“But how, though,” you press, shading your eyes from a glare off a building. John looks introspectively up at the sky, then shrugs.

 

“I guess once it got to the point where I couldn’t imagine being without her, it was just a matter of making it official. Merging our finances, getting the same insurance, all that jazz.” John sighs and smiles. “I didn’t want anyone else. Being away from her too long bothered me. I mean, we can function without each other, we’re not maniacs, but it just sucks, y’know? Like…like missing your favorite socks. You can do without your favorite socks, but life is so much better with the socks than without the socks.”

 

“You have weird metaphors,” you say, and John bursts out laughing. You laugh along, and when he’s done, he claps you on the shoulder.

 

“Ah, big sister, one day, you’ll understand,” he says, and then slyly cuts his eyes at you and grins. “Or maybe I just need to change the metaphor. Try functioning without…a lovely dining room table, for instance.”

 

Instantly your face turns bright red. “This—that’s not—”

 

“Oh, Jane,” John laughs, slinging his arm around your shoulders, “you’re so funny when you’re flustered.” In retaliation you poke his ribs hard, and he mushes your face into his armpit before letting you go. After shouting good-naturedly at each other for several minutes, John pats you on the back. “Anyway, I think once you stop being able to imagine saying ‘I love you’ to anyone else, that’s when you know it’s time. If you’re the marrying type, I mean. It doesn’t always work that way. But sometimes it does.” He shrugs again. “Let’s go this way.”

 

He cuts through a side alley between a hotel undergoing renovations and a tiny record store, and you follow suit, mapping the route he’s deciding to take in your head. This alley lets out a few streets away from your favorite café…maybe you could stop for dinner.

 

All thoughts of food are blown clean from your head when an old man steps into the mouth of the alley, positively beaming as he folds his arms behind his back, crisp white suit gleaming in the dim of the alley. You hold out your arm and stop John, who begins, very slightly, to bob on his feet. You belatedly wish you’d given John your gun.

 

“Miss Crocker,” Scratch says, bowing his head slightly. “Mr. Egbert. How wonderful to see you both this evening.”

 

“The feeling is definitely not mutual,” John says, and Scratch laughs.

 

“Of course it isn’t,” he says, smiling merrily. “I wouldn’t look behind you, but if you do, you’ll notice my accomplice is barring your way, and given that your encounters over the years have been less than pleasant, I would suggest following me before this gets…nasty.” Behind you, you hear the unmistakable grinding of a new metal arm and bad-tempered spitting, which are the audible features of Spades Slick. You glance at John, who nods once, and he follows as you take point and walk towards Scratch.

 

“Wonderful,” Scratch beams. “This way, please.” He leads you into a side door of the hotel, and you take special care to study his movements. It seems he’s adjusted to his body, though there are signs that the body is beginning to rot despite its tenant. Slowly, of course, but the joints are stiff and the extremities of his fingers are turning black with congealed blood. He doesn’t smell, which makes you think Scratch might be banishing the smell itself somehow, but that’s not important. Nor is the slight bloating of the body; the suit fits a bit tighter across the shoulders and belly than it did on your first encounter. Anyway, the body is suiting Scratch’s purposes just fine for the moment, though you’re noticing quite a few stumbles and slips.

 

He leads you into the ground-floor event room of the hotel, which has been newly laid with polished marble tiles in alternating black and white squares. Fitting, considering what’s about to occur. You discreetly reach for your right forearm, then change your mind and reach for John’s hand. He squeezes your fingers tightly, then lets go.

 

“I must say, this has been quite a dull game,” Scratch says, his reedy voice carrying throughout the room. Slick mumbles to himself and stumps to close the door. “I expected more from you, Detective. Though having young Master John here does lend it a vintage flair.”

 

“Always obliged to disappoint,” you say, once again twitching towards your forearm, once again leaving it be. Not yet. “Though I’m sure we could have dragged it out for some time longer.”

 

“Yes, but let’s be honest with one another, my dear,” Scratch laughs as he plants his feet on a white tile and turns with a click of his heels to tap the side of his nose and grin at you. “Neither your patience nor mine runs quite that deeply, does it?”

 

You smile back. “I thought you were losing your edge for a while there, Scratch.”

 

He laughs, though his eyes are cold. You watch them closely for any sign of slippage, but it seems to be his limbs that are sustaining most of the trouble; they tremble frequently. “When torturing someone, Detective, you want your cuts to hurt, but if you cut too deeply, the fun is over all too quickly. And what fruits we’ve produced!” He laughs again, the hard sound echoing through the empty hall. “Tell me, how soon after your visit did Detective Vantas ban you from the premises? I don’t think that happened even at the height of your disgrace thanks to Ms. Peixes.”

 

“Not long,” you say in clipped tones. Not yet, you repeat to yourself as Slick goes to stand beside Scratch. His newly-restored robotic eye doesn’t move, but his one good eye narrows. You ignore him in favor of his master.

 

“And the Misters Strider!” Scratch smiles, closing his eyes as if inhaling a pleasant scent. “How distraught was young David, when he found out how close I could have come to bashing his adorable son’s head against the wall?”

 

“I think you know perfectly well,” you say coolly. “Since you do seem to know everything.”

 

“Most things, my dear detective, most things,” he corrects. “I assume it was bad enough to push your charming partner out the door for good, or else you’d be here with him, wouldn’t you?”

 

Your jaw tightens and you deliberately look away. Scratch cackles. You grasp your wrist in your hand behind your back, thumb soothing right over where your chip was implanted. Soon. Very soon.

 

“And the dogs?” you ask. “Were they part of your master plan, or a bonus?”

 

“Funny you should mention that,” Scratch says, and he sounds so smug you have to look at him again. Behind you, John is breathing lightly, perched on the balls of his feet. He always did have trouble keeping still. You take comfort in that as you study your opponent. Now and again Scratch’s mouth goes slack in one corner. It’s slight, but the minor slip comforts you. “Here and now, they are a delightedly unexpected perk. However…well, for the moment, let’s just say I was highly instrumental in their creation. Or, the original’s creation. How Jacob Harley was able to recreate the feat is another interesting story, as well as how Ms. Peixes was able to acquire the second, but I’m afraid we may not have time for both.”

 

“Oh?” You arch your brow. “That’s a first, you not being forthcoming. Are we running that behind?”

 

He smiles, takes out a gold pocketwatch, and flicks it open, inspecting the interior. He closes it and with small difficulty replaces it. “I suppose I have time to share with you the origin of your demise. Do pay attention, it’s ever so tiresome to repeat myself.”

 

You smile thinly and press hard on the tiny scar just inside your forearm.

 

“Quite a few years ago,” Scratch starts, and in your periphery you notice Slick roll his eyes, “I approached Ms. Peixes with the opportunity to unite our businesses, both public and private, and work on a solution to our mutual leadership problems together. Mind you, she wasn’t keen on the idea, which I knew she wouldn’t be, but as a show of my good faith, I promised her that if she would at the very least not interfere in my own doings, I would give her a weapon of unmatched power to use as she pleased. It was a simple task, you see. She was already growing bored of playing house with Sassacre and those brats she adopted, and more than that, was increasingly losing her patience with the enormous black dog that guarded her children day and night and disrupted most of her assassination attempts.

 

“So, in exchange for her cooperation, I took the dog, and planted within it a seed of my own making. It germinated for several weeks, and one day, while the little Crocker heirs were taking their beloved hound on a stroll, the seed bloomed. Faithful Becquerel turned on his owners, biting free the leash you so kindly brought along in your pocket. I miscalculated slightly, and instead of eviscerating the lad and lass as I promised, the dog teleported away. It was a minor hitch, one I fixed with a set of custom cryogenic chambers and a tracking device for Ms. Peixes and the promise that if she merely presented the hound with an article of her target’s clothing, in the future he would hunt where she pointed and return.

 

“Now,” Scratch says as John tenses behind you, “the actual training of the beast I left to Ms. Peixes, and secure in her promise, I let her alone to use her new toy as she pleased. When Jacob Harley died, I assume she put the dog on permanent ice, as well as the twin beast Harley created using the blood of his own granddaughter on their family mongrel. As to why his hound is so bent on hunting her fellow monster, I’ve no idea, but it doesn’t matter much, anyway. As soon as they both appear, which should be any moment now, my associate will take care of the copy, leaving the original free to carry out his purpose.” Scratch smiles, flat dead eyes looking into yours, and for a second—just a second—his focus wobbles, face sliding into a loose grimace. A string of fluid trails down his chin. He regains control of himself quickly, but the displeasure in the turn of his mouth tells you he knows you saw.

 

“What if we kill the hound first?” you ask, and Scratch laughs.

 

“My dear, if you manage that feat, then this truly will become an interesting game,” Scratch says, and you smell the beginning whiff of ozone that indicates someone teleporting to your location within seconds. “Check.”

 

 You frown—does he consider you the king piece? That would explain his current leniency on Dirk—but it’s too late to follow that thought. In a crackle of green lightning, Bec Noir jumps through a portal, Bec Blanche hot on his heels. Noir’s claws scrape against the tile like nails on a chalkboard, and he and Blanche circle each other, completely unaware of the encounter they seem to have stumbled into. You grab John and kick over a nearby workbench, ducking behind it as the dogs leap at each other.

 

“Mr. Slick, if you please,” Scratch says, hardly raising his voice at all, and you peek over the bench to see Slick take out a pure white gun with a silver handle from his jacket. You gasp, then frown, because clearly the gun is similar, but not the same as the one in your holster right now. For one thing, it looks like ceramic inlay, not ivory, making the gun white as Slick cocks it. You think you notice it as soon as Scratch does, but as Scratch raises his hand, Slick spins and shoots.

 

The bullet glows green for a second and changes course, but not far enough—it carves a furrow across Scratch’s eyes, obliterating them in a shower of foul rotted blood. Scratch howls, mingling with the dogs’ barks and biting.

 

“That one’s for Snowman,” Slick spits, and raises his gun again, but Scratch reaches in his pockets for a small white device with a single black button and savagely mashes it. Slick’s mechanical pieces glow green before exploding, and his agonized scream seems to give even the dogs pause—or Blanche, anyway, who hesitates a split second at the sound. Noir darts forward, jaws at the ready, going for Blanche’s throat—

 

A second gunshot rips the air, cutting through Noir’s shoulder, and in the wings Roxy whoops as Noir yelps and misses his target, leaving him open for Blanche to regain her wits and continue her attack. Roxy’s presence means the dogs can’t teleport away (you also attribute the failed diversion of Slick’s bullet to her), and must also mean somewhere nearby, Calliope is waiting. Scratch, however, is getting back to his feet, his ruined face twisted in a snarl.

 

“Dirty trick,” he gargles, swaying, grasping for something in his jacket that turns out to be a second gun, “dirty, dirty trick.”

 

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” you say, and pass John your gun like you should have done hours ago. He looks at you for a second with wide eyes, then narrows them, nods, and begins laying down some cover fire. Several bullets bury themselves in Scratch’s body before he ascertains the direction, but by then, John is already on the move, Roxy above discarding her sniper rifle and using a similar caliber handgun to yours. Slick’s sudden move works well into your own plans, you note with appreciation as you take out the real Scratch pistol and cock it. The hounds’ jaws are locked, and they’re tearing at each other as you try to aim for Noir. There’s a bang of a gun, and someone screams your name.

 

Suddenly you’re knocked to the ground as two bullets lodge in the wall behind you, and on top of you is Dirk, which catches you by surprise.

 

“Hey,” he says.

 

“Hey,” you reply breathlessly, and a bullet ricochets into the tile next to your head. “Let’s talk later.”

 

“Yeah,” he grunts, and moves with you as your brain whirls, recalculates, and settles. Dirk wasn’t supposed to be here yet, but it’s just as well; you need him to watch your back while Roxy and John distract Scratch for Calliope. You both hustle towards the pillars flanking the grand doorway, taking cover as the bullets fly and the dogs snarl and bark. Slick seems to be sliding himself out of the way with his feet, leaving a very concerning trail of blood and other bits behind him, but you can’t focus on him right now, despite his excellent timing and surprising moral barometer. You only have one bullet to take out Bec Noir, and you can’t waste it.

 

Meanwhile, robbed of both sight and teleportation powers, Scratch is faring badly against the combined force of John and Roxy. John long ago ran out of ammunition and has now picked up a hammer from the nearby construction mess, waiting in between Roxy’s spurts of gunfire to dart forward and slam into the body. However, Scratch is keeping his hold on his stolen form, and you wonder if Scratch can’t fully possess something with a will of its own. Then you wonder about the repercussions of killing Noir before Scratch is dealt with, and swear.

 

“What’s the plan?” Dirk shouts as Scratch’s roars ring out alongside the dogs’ savage growling.

 

“Callie needs to make her move now,” you shout back, “and then I need a clear shot.”

 

An idea dawns on you as a flash of green skin moves in the upper balcony, and you take Scratch’s gun out of your holster.

 

“Actually,” you say, “ _you_ need a clear shot.” You toss him the gun, and he catches it.

 

“Jane?”

 

“Dirk,” you say as Calliope makes her entrance, jumping from the balcony and grasping Scratch’s kicking form in her huge claws, “if I live through this—will you marry me?”

 

Dirk’s jaw drops, and you flash him a smile as you take the leash out of your pocket, dart towards the fighting dogs, and do the most incredibly stupid thing you have ever done in your life, which is saying something, given your track record.

 

Several things happen in quick succession:

 

First, Scratch gurgles his last, and then his essence leaks from the old man’s mouth, pure white and seething like a thundercloud. It attempts to stream away, but Calliope physically grabs it with her claws, and it shrieks louder than anything before.

 

Second, Bec Noir manages to rip a chunk of fur and flesh from just below Bec Blanche’s throat, and, yelping, Bec Blanche backs away for a few precious moments.

 

Third, you snap the leash, then take a running leap and straddle Bec Noir’s back, looping the leash around his neck, pulling the chewed end through the handle, and yanking as hard as you can.

 

It’s a terrifying ride, with several hundred pounds of vicious black dog writhing beneath you as you clamp your legs to his sides and keep strangling him as best you can, but even with all your might, you can’t hold on for long when Bec Noir rolls, slamming on top of you into the ground and reaching back with his slavering jaws to bite the leash away. Or you. Whichever he can reach. The breath is knocked from your lungs and you feel several things in your ribcage snap, which doesn’t bode well at all for your breathing or gripping power. Bec Noir rolls off you and you can feel several ribs popping in and out of place, but you grit your teeth, take as deep a breath you can to try and steady your ribs, and hold on tight.

 

“Shoot!” you try to yell, but it comes out as more of a hoarse whisper. “Dirk, shoot!”

 

There is a terrifying moment when Bec Noir manages to flip you off and comes at you, jaws snapping, and it’s only your arms holding the leash in his mouth that’s holding him at bay, but you can see the leather fraying, your arms weakening—if this is how Nanna died, you think hazily, then you’re proud that you stood your ground like she did—

 

There is an unnaturally loud gunshot, and as if in slow motion, you see a brilliant white ball bury itself in Bec Noir’s empty eye socket. The force of it peels Noir off of you, and in another savage bark Bec Blanche’s teeth fasten in Bec Noir’s throat. You think Noir might already have been dead before Blanche got to him, but you allow her that victory as you let your arms and your head hit the tile.

 

There is an echo of a scream that sounds like Scratch, and someone tilts your head up slightly, you think to look at them, but your eyes seek Calliope. She looks a little ill, but she glances at you and winks, big green thick-lashed eyes twinkling.

 

“Did we win?” Roxy yells from the balcony as Dirk shifts your torso slightly to feel at your ribs, then cups your face in his hands, smoothing away your hair.

 

“Yes,” Calliope says, “I believe we did.”

 

You look up into Dirk’s face, and he looks down into yours, and he bends down to press his forehead into yours.

 

“Thank gog,” he murmurs.

 

==>

 

“That is the stupidest thing you have ever done in your egregiously idiotic life,” Karkat says loudly as you smile and keep an ice pack on your right-side ribs.

 

“So you’ve said,” you say serenely, sipping your lemonade and tucking your toes a little as a splash of pool water from Dave on John’s shoulders knocking Terezi off of Vriska’s shoulders slops over the sides.

 

“No, I mean, I can’t even look at you right now, you straight-up lassoed a teleporting hellbeast and—”

 

“I’ve said it all before, nubs, don’t bother,” Dirk says from his sun chair, which he’s wedged as close to yours as possible, holding your hand and now and then tilting it so the ring on your finger catches the light.

 

(“I’m surprised you didn’t somehow dig this out,” Dirk had said to you as he laid the box on your lap in the hospital. “I’ve only been jumpy about it for three months now.”

 

“Well, I’m not exactly the detective I once was, am I,” you teased, and then promptly burst into tears.)

 

Karkat grumbles as Jade rubs more sunblock into his back and on his shoulders, which are already starting to turn brick-red, and his grumbles sound suspiciously like “can’t _believe_ you didn’t take me with you.” Kanaya, lounging with Rose nearby, looks over her sunglasses at him, and he colors.

 

“And what Dirk’s said, I’ve seconded!” Jake yells from several chairs over, where he and Roxy are squashed together in a single chair reading a gun magazine. His new scars stand out overbright against his sun-darkened skin, and now and then Roxy will rub his jaw with her thumb, where a particularly livid slash interrupts the line of his stubble.

 

Django babbles something loudly from Calliope’s lap, and Gamzee laughs. “What the itty-bittiest bro said,” he says, though he’s told you plainly and to your face that he wishes you had died. Some things just don’t change, you think, but it’s with fondness.

 

“What about me?” John protests. “I was in the thick of it!”

 

(“It didn’t take him too long to die,” John had told you when you asked about Slick back in the hospital. “He looked at me, grinned, and said he had pals to see on the other side and he was glad to go. I’m not sad he’s dead, but it does seem a shame that’s how he went.”)

 

Vriska splashes water in his face, and he yelps, splashing back. You laugh, pushing your sunglasses up on your head.

 

“And you played your part very well, dear,” Callie calls, winking at you.

 

(“He had something awfully nasty in store for Dirk,” Callie told you in the hospital, “but he was losing control of his body. It made him hasty.”

 

“Good for us,” you’d said, squeezing Dirk’s hand. “And he’s not getting out again?”

 

“Not if I can help it,” Callie said cheerfully. “And I certainly can help it this time.”)

 

Dirk thumbs under your eye. “Mascara smudge,” he says in a neutral voice. You decide to ignore the implication that not only did you actually attend Spades Slick’s funeral, but you, in fact, cried. No one needs to know that you cried at your father’s murderer’s funeral. (The tears weren’t for him, anyway. Not all.) You put your sunglasses back down.

 

“So,” Karkat says after kissing Jade thoroughly for her help, “what kind of paperwork do you need from me now, Jane? Lifting the ban, I suppose?”

 

You hesitate, then look at Dirk. He grins and shrugs, the _do what you want_ implicit. You look at your engagement ring, a diamond flanked by aquamarines, and then up at Karkat. You smile.

 

“I think we can let it stand,” you say. “At least for a little while.”

 

“Who are you and what have you done with Jane Crocker,” Karkat deadpans, and you laugh, pulling Dirk’s hand up in yours to kiss his knuckles.

 

“That’s Jane Strider in a few months, buster,” you say. Dirk grins and kisses your nose, then your lips. The sun shines, the pool water flies, the smell of Tavros’ barbeque wafts through the air. Your ribs will heal in another five weeks, and in the meantime John is sticking around to do things for you and Vriska is house-hunting nearby. Bec Blanche has disappeared, and while you aren’t certain you’ll see her again, it’s always a possibility. Sassacres do tend to get into trouble, after all.

 

Your name is Jane Crocker, soon to be Strider. Your issues are deep and manifold, but with Dirk at your side and your family around you, you just might start to work through them. You have scars that will never heal, and you’re starting to understand that it’s okay. You have also cut yourself off from your primary drug of choice as well as your main income, and that’s okay, too. Dirk’s hand is solid and warm in yours, and when you look at him, his freckle-spattered tanned skin seems to glow. Behind his shades you can see the light catching in his eyes, and your belly flutters. Then he looks at you and grins, and the flutters still, firming into something like confidence.

 

It’s going to be a beautiful evening, leading into a beautiful night, and a beautiful life, stretching as far as you can see. And you can’t wait to get started.

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to all of you who have read my stories, who stuck with me, who cheered me on, and most of all, who love this ditzy little AU. You are magical perfect creatures and I hope you have clear skin and fruitful crops.
> 
> (And if you ever forget, please know that from the bottom of my heart, you have my thanks and my love. Always my love.)


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